


The Earth Will Shake (and We'll Wonder Why)

by Linsky



Series: Wolfverse [10]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Knotting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Possible dubcon depending on how you feel about a/b/o dynamics, Praise Kink, a tale of two alphas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky
Summary: Sid sees the moment of recognition as Malkin gets close enough to register that Sid is a wolf and an alpha. His eyes go a little wide, but after a moment his long angular face melts into a smile. “Sidney Crosby,” he says, his accent thick, and he holds out his hand.Sid takes it. Malkin’s scent is all around, him, the scent of another alpha, and Sid’s braced for it to make him want to fight. Itshouldmake him want to fight.It doesn’t.(Can be read as a stand-alone)
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Series: Wolfverse [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/512662
Comments: 671
Kudos: 942





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> YOU GUYSSSS this story is finally happening! Five years of Hockey RPF, and I finally wrote a Sid/Geno story. Well, mostly. The ending is still slightly in progress. :D [ETA: it is done now! Hurrah!!]
> 
> If you've read the Wolfverse Advent Calendar for 2019, you'll recognize a good chunk of this opening (though I did make some tweaks). Totally new stuff is after the second section break.
> 
> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr](https://linskywords.tumblr.com)!

Sid has always known he’d be an alpha. His mom likes to tell a story about when he was two, and they met an alpha at a local wolf run. When they got home, she explained what that meant to toddler Sid: how the alpha looks out for the pack and welcomes new people into it, takes responsibility for them, just generally tries to make everyone feel comfortable and valued. Sid said, “Like me!” and she laughed, because he was only two and wouldn’t present a dynamic for a few years at least.

By the time he did, just before starting kindergarten, no one was surprised. “You knew, even then,” his mom likes to say. “It felt so natural to you to be an alpha.”

It does feel natural to Sid. It always has. His whole childhood he was at the head of every hockey team he belonged to—because of his skill, but also because he’s always been good at being in charge. He’s not usually the loudest voice in a room, but he’s the one who gets listened to the most. He likes it that way: he doesn’t want to shout or bluster or argue. He just wants to see the potential in a group of people and do what he can to get them there.

He gets the A halfway through his first season with the Pens. It’s early for that kind of responsibility, but it’s not much of a surprise. Sid knows he’s going to be a leader on this team. He’s glad they’re moving him in that direction already.

It’s a bit more of a surprise when Mario sits him down in April of his rookie year and tells him they’re hoping to sign Evgeni Malkin. Sid knows they’ve been trying to get him, obviously—the second-overall draft pick from 2004, and a year and a half later he still hasn’t played a single game with the NHL. Mario thinks they might be able to bring him to the States this summer, though. “I wanted to give you a heads up,” he says, “given what they say about Russian players.”

At first Sid doesn’t know what it is they say about Russian players—that they’re used to bigger ice? That it’s hard for them to get out of the country? But Mario’s giving him this really level look, like he means something more than that, and after a moment Sid realizes what he must be getting at.

Sid’s never totally hidden being a wolf. There are plenty of people who know, but they’re all wolves, too, and wolves don’t really talk about other wolves to humans. He’s always assumed Mario didn’t know. But now, the way Mario’s looking at him, Sid’s guessing he was wrong.

It doesn’t seem to be a problem for Mario, if he’s sitting here having this conversation with Sid. “Do they say it about Malkin in particular?” Sid asks carefully.

Mario nods. “He’s always been pretty open about it.” A pause. “It’s different in the RSL.”

Sid’s heard that, too. That wolves have it worse in Russia in some ways, but the RSL actively recruits them, thinks they’re stronger and better at the game. Sid doesn’t think that’s true: as far as he’s ever been able to tell, there isn’t a meaningful difference in the physical abilities of a full human and a wolf in human form. But everyone has their own weird ideas about wolves.

“Anyway, we’ve told him that of course we’d never have a problem with that,” Mario says. “But I wanted to check with you. Just in case you might feel differently.”

Sid’s pretty sure Mario’s not accusing him of being lupophobic. Not the way Mario’s looking at him, neutrally, steadily, like he’s respecting Sid’s space but also giving him the chance to speak. Mario’s worried about a different kind of problem.

“Thanks,” Sid says. “I’ll give it some thought.”

He watches video of Malkin later that day. He’s seen him play before, of course—has even played against him a couple of times, at World Juniors. The video confirms what he already knew: that Malkin is impressive on the ice. Dominant. An asset in a huge way, if the Pens manage to get him. But if what Mario said is true, if Malkin’s a wolf, it can really only mean one thing.

That makes sense, too. People with outdated ideas about wolves versus humans usually also have outdated ideas about dynamics. The RSL isn’t likely to be in the business of recruiting omegas. They probably have some betas, but based on the videos Sid’s watching, he’d bet money that Malkin isn’t one of them. If the man on his screen is a wolf, he can only be an alpha.

That’s…not ideal. Sid’s not as bad with other alphas as some wolves he knows. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s always uncomfortable, having another alpha in the room: like there isn’t enough air to breathe, like he has to constantly push down the urge to fight for his space.

It wouldn’t be great, having to deal with that on the team. But Sid’s done it before—on other teams, in classes at school. It’s awkward for a few days, and then he chills out and gets used to it and barely notices it anymore. Like how if the light is too bright, you put on sunglasses and you adjust. Sid can do that for the Pens. For a player as good as Malkin, he’d definitely do it.

Of course, some of that depends on the other alpha. In Sid’s experience, there are some alphas who are never okay with you no matter how cool you try to play it.

Sid watches the video again where Malkin comes to the rescue of a teammate. He punches the opposing player straight into the boards and then comes at him again, a storm of fury. Then the ref steps in, and Malkin gets himself under control immediately, backing off, keeping himself between the other player and his teammate.

Yeah, Sid can deal with this. He gets up and goes to tell Mario he’s okay with it.

***

It’s mid-summer by the time they get any concrete word on Malkin. Sid’s a little on edge, waiting to see how it’ll play out, and then he’s on edge in a different way when they find out Malkin’s actually on the plane and will be at the Lemieuxs’ before the day is out. Sid’s not nervous, exactly. Just, he needs to be completely in control of himself. This could be an important player for the Pens for years to come; he doesn’t want to mess that up.

Mario lets him know when they’re coming back from the airport with Gonch. Sid comes out to meet them. That’s important: he can’t act like Malkin’s presence doesn’t matter, or like he’s scared to face him. But he doesn’t want to be too confrontational, either, so he hangs back near the front door when the car pulls up.

The car stops, and Malkin unfolds himself from the back seat. And unfolds some more. Sid knew he was a big guy from the game tape and from those games in Junior, but now that he’s here and Sid’s focused on him he looks larger. It raises Sid’s hackles a bit, and he takes a slow breath, calming himself down. He’s not here to fight.

He keeps his eyes on Malkin as he comes up the path. Malkin looks a little confused, disoriented, like he just flew across the ocean and landed in a foreign country where he doesn’t know anybody or speak the language. Not a threat, Sid reminds himself. A teammate.

He hopes Malkin comes to the same conclusion.

Malkin’s eyes fix on Sid when he’s about halfway up the path. Sid watches him breathe in, and then that moment of recognition as he gets close enough to register that Sid is a wolf and an alpha. His eyes go a little wide, but after a moment his long angular face melts into a smile. “Sidney Crosby,” he says, his accent thick, and he holds out his hand.

Sid takes it. Malkin’s scent is all around, him, the scent of another alpha, and he’s braced for it to make him want to fight. It _should_ make him want to fight. The firm grip of Malkin’s hand on his should make him want to throw down immediately. It doesn’t, though. It makes his stomach jerk; it makes his face hot, heat moving in a slow wave through his body. It makes him want to do something he’s never wanted to do before: tilt his head back and show his neck.

Sid keeps shaking Malkin’s hand, stunned into silence. This is going to be a totally different type of problem than he thought.

*** 

Sid watches Malkin as he meets the rest of the Lemieuxs. He has a surprisingly gentle presence: like someone who’s always been more physically powerful than most of the people around him, and who is careful to carry himself so that that power doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. He shakes hands with Nathalie and the kids, somehow not too menacing even as he towers over them.

He isn’t good-looking in any traditional sense of the word. His face is kind of lumpy and strange. His nose and mouth manage to be too big for him, even given how much of him there is. He looks gangly, like there are few extra inches tacked on in odd places. Like a puppy who hasn’t finished growing.

Malkin looks up and catches Sid looking. Sid flinches but doesn’t look away. Looking in the first place is dangerous, like Sid is watching Malkin to make sure he doesn’t step out of line. Looking away would be worse: admitting he was doing something he didn’t want Malkin to know about.

At first Malkin’s eyes look wary. But then he deliberately relaxes, and his face breaks into a smile.

It’s amazing how much that smile transforms his face. The proportions are still surprising, but it doesn’t matter as much when he’s smiling like that.

Sid’s never been into guys. Not specifically, anyway. There were a couple of girls he hooked up with at Shattuck and Rimouski, when he wanted to know what the fuss was about. Mostly his takeaway was that he didn’t want to pursue much in the way of dating during his hockey career. It’s not worth the hassle, especially with the wolf thing.

There’s never been a guy who’s caught his attention. If there had, it wouldn’t have been another alpha.

Sid does let his eyes slide away from Malkin, now that the moment of danger has passed. He’s lucky that Malkin is being chill about things. He must want this to work as much as Sid does.

They all go in to dinner, Sid and the Lemieuxs and Malkin and Gonch. The kids chatter at Malkin nonstop. He must be missing half of it, even with Gonch next to him muttering translations, but he looks amused anyway.

Alexa is trying to pronounce Malkin’s name. “Yuv-gun,” she says. “Yuv-gunny.”

“That’s not it,” Austin says disgustedly while Malkin laughs.

“Evgeni,” Malkin says, and there’s a lilt to it that none of them can duplicate.

He says something else in Russian, which Gonch translates. “He says his friends in Russia call him Zhenya, but his English-speaking friends call him Geno.”

Geno. Sid tries out the name in his mind. But maybe it would be overly familiar to use that right away? Should he stick with Malkin?

“Lots of hockey players have nicknames,” Stephanie says importantly. “Like how Fleury is Flower.”

“Sure, you know _Flower’s_ nickname,” Lauren says, a little singsong.

Steph hits her in the shoulder while her cheeks turn pink. “Shut up, everyone knows it.”

Malkin obviously can’t understand them, but he grins at them anyway. Sid tries not to watch him too directly. He can feel the pressure of Malkin’s presence, the feeling of other-alpha-in-the-room, and he knows Malkin can feel it, too. Normally he’d try to break the tension with small talk, but it’s harder when it has to go through a translator. Should Sid look at Malkin while he talks? Should he look at Gonch?

Malkin turns to him and starts talking before Sid can figure it out. “He wants to know if you have a nickname,” Gonch says.

“Oh, uh,” Sid says. “I guess—” He definitely isn’t going to give him Sid the Kid. “Just Sid, I guess.”

Gonch translates. Malkin smiles at him, the cautious smile of two alphas negotiating peace. “Sid,” he repeats.

He says it warmly, slowly. “Geno,” Sid says in return, just a little bit of a question in it.

Geno says something else. “He says you could try Zhenya if you’re up for a challenge,” Gonch says.

Sid’s never one to turn down a challenge. “Zhenya,” he says, trying to make it sound like Gonch did.

Geno laughs and says something. “He says you’d better stick to Geno,” Gonch says.

“Oh, come on, it can’t have been _that_ bad,” Sid says. He makes a note to look into Russian pronunciation.

They all adjourn to the living room after dinner. Geno gets co-opted by the kids, who drag him over to the XBox to show him their NHL 05 moves. Sid stays with the other adults, not wanting to crowd Geno. But after a while, when they’re looking at some Pens memorabilia Mario’s thinking about putting on display, Geno leaves the kids to their game and comes up to Sid.

It’s a little bit of a daring move. The Lemieux household isn’t exactly Sid’s pack, but Geno is still approaching Sid on something pretty close to Sid’s own turf. It could be a challenge, but Geno’s body language isn’t challenging.

“Sid,” Geno says. His hand are in his pockets and his shoulders are back, making his smile friendly instead of threatening. “Sid good.”

“Huh?” Sid says.

“Hockey?” Geno says. He looks uncertain, like he’s not sure he’s getting the words right. “Sid good.”

“Oh!” Sid feels his face break into a smile. “Thanks. You, too. I mean, you’re good, too. Obviously.” He’s talking too fast. “Sorry,” he says, more slowly. “You. You are good.”

Geno looks like he gets it now. But he shakes his head resolutely. “No. I’m watch. _Sid_ good.”

It’s embarrassing how nice that is to hear. Sid has people telling him he’s good every day. He’s confident in his own abilities. But somehow it feels different coming from Geno. Maybe because Geno made an effort to say it in a language he barely speaks. “Yeah?” Sid says, aiming for casual. “Thanks.”

Geno pulls out his phone. “Sid give,” he says, handing it to him.

“Um,” Sid says. Is Geno…giving him his phone.

Geno gestures again for him to take it, then mimes typing something in. “Give?”

“Ohhh,” Sid says. “My number. Yeah, sure.”

He types his number in and hands the phone back. “What, um,” Sid says, before realizing he has no idea how to phrase the question so that Geno will understand.

Geno laughs, probably at the look on his face. “We’re text,” he says. “Yes?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sid says. It’s a nice idea, but honestly, he’s pretty skeptical. It’s hard enough to communicate right now, when they have body language at their disposal.

“Sid,” Geno says, then pauses like he’s thinking about what to say. Sid looks over at Gonch, ready to call him over. But Geno waves him off. “Sid, Geno, Penguins,” he says. “Yes?”

“Yes. Of course,” Sid says.

“No—” Geno screws up his face and mimes fighting with fists. “Sid, Geno,” he says again, his hand moving between them. Then he mimes shooting a puck.

“Sid and Geno…play together,” Sid says. “Not fight?”

Geno’s face breaks into a smile. “Not fight,” he says. He gestures to the phone again. “Text.” Then he moves his hand between them again, like he’s acting out a free flow of dialogue. “Text, not fight. Yes?”

It’s a good idea. If they can pull it off. “But, English,” Sid says.

Geno puts his hand on his heart, mock wounded. “I’m English!” he says, and it’s so ridiculous, after this conversation they’ve been having, that Sid bursts into laughter.

Geno’s straight face cracks. “I’m English some,” he amends, and that sends Sid off again.

“Yeah, and I’m Russian, a hundred percent,” Sid says through his laughter, even though he knows Geno won’t be able to understand it.

“No, no,” Geno says, sobering up. He puts his hand on Sid’s arm. “I’m _find_ English. Book.”

Sid isn’t laughing anymore. He’s breathing deep, feeling Geno’s hand on his arm, a charge through his whole body.

Geno suddenly seems to notice what he’s doing and snatches his hand back. “I’m—” he says, and then a string of Russian. Now he’s the one looking around for Gonch.

“No,” Sid says. He touches his fingers to Geno’s arm, a glancing touch—just enough to make it clear that he isn’t looking to start trouble. It doesn’t matter what he might or might not be feeling. The important thing is that nothing gets weird between them. “We’re okay,” he says, putting his hand back at his side.

Geno eyes him warily. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Sid says firmly. “We’re okay. We’ll text.”

Geno’s face lights up with a smile. Sid find himself smiling back. It’s hard not to, when Geno’s smiling at him like that. He finds himself swaying forward a little, almost as if—

“You two having a good conversation?” Mario says, and Gonch is there, too, speaking a stream of Russian to Geno. Sid takes a step back, takes a deep breath, presses his hands against the heat of his cheeks.

Geno and Gonch leave pretty soon after that. Geno just flew halfway around the world, and he’s got to be brutally tired. Mario hangs back with Sid after they leave. “So?” he says. “What did you think?”

Sid breathes deep, taking in the lingering scent of Geno. It went well, all things considered. Some weirdness, but—better than Sid could have expected. “I think he’s going to be a really great player for us,” he says.

“Good,” Mario says. “That’s what I think, too.”

***

Sid gets a text from an unknown number before he goes to bed that night. _Hi sid,_ it says, followed by a long string of closing parentheses.

He’s not sure what the parentheses are supposed to mean. But he keys the number into his phone before going to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Sid’s not sure what he expects out of his text correspondence with Geno. An occasional check-in, maybe; some questions about the U.S; probably some attempts at English he won’t understand. He definitely doesn’t expect what he wakes up to the next morning: a grainy camera-phone picture of Geno’s face, kind of frowning, smushed against a cat’s. _Friend,_ the text says.

Sid laughs out loud. _Is that Gonch’s cat?_ he sends back.

_Mine cat now,_ Geno says.

_I think Gonch will be sad,_ Sid says.

The response a minute or two to arrive. _Gonch not need know,_ Geno says.

That startles a second laugh out of Sid. Then he realizes he’s still lying in bed, five minutes after he was supposed to get up, and his trainer will be waiting for him. He hurries into the shower.

His phone buzzes again when he’s at the rink, about to hit the ice. It’s another picture from Geno, this one of the cat reaching toward the phone camera. There’s a text that says, _Cat friend sid too._

Sid grins at the phone. _Just don’t get me arrested,_ he replies.

It keeps going like that. It’s not small talk, exactly. It’s random things, updates on Geno’s life, little stuff to make Sid laugh. The kind of thing Sid would expect from someone he’d known for years, a few days.

It’s fun. It’s also a smart move on Geno’s part. He’s coming onto town as a new player on a team where he doesn’t know anyone, where he doesn’t even share a language with anyone except Gonch. And here’s Sid, fellow alpha, number-one draft pick, last year’s point leader, already wearing an A, an obvious potential rival, and instead of opposing him, Geno’s making friends. Really skillfully, too. Sid doesn’t think he’d be able to be so friendly with someone he’d just met, if Geno weren’t taking the lead on it.

They’ve been texting for about a week when Sid gets a text that makes him stop and frown at his phone. It’s a picture: two pairs of knees, one shoved up against something, one with lots of room to spare. It takes a minute for Sid to realize they’re shoved up against the backs of airplane seats. There’s text with the picture: _Better small than geno._

Sid stares down at the phone. It’s not necessarily weird that Geno’s on an airplane—he could be flying anywhere. But it’s kind of weird that he didn’t mention it to Sid, in all the texting they’ve been doing.

He starts to tap out a question. Before he can finish, he gets another text from Geno: _flying byyyyyeee :P._

It’s not Sid’s business, really. He looks at the phone for another minute, trying to convince himself of that, then abandons his half-made sandwich and goes over to the main house.

The Lemieuxs are all busy with their own activities, Nathalie at work, the kids out enjoying the last month of summer. Mario’s home, though, and Sid finds him in the kitchen, fishing around in the fridge.

“Hey,” Mario says. “I’m reviewing on some media content for training camp; want to take a look?”

“Sure,” Sid says, loitering by the center island. He’s not sure how to ask what he wants to ask without it sounding weird. _Is Malkin going back to Russia and you didn’t tell me?_ might be a little over the top. Finally he settles on, “I just got a text from Geno. It seems like maybe he’s traveling?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mario says. “I think Gonch said he was leaving for Russia this morning.”

Russia. “But, like, the season?”

“Oh, no, not like that.” Mario grins at him. “He just wanted to go back and spend some time with his family before coming back for training camp.”

Of course. Sid should have expected that. “Is that—safe?” he asks. “I mean, if he had to sneak out last time—”

Mario twists his Gatorade open. “He’s not a criminal in Russia. It’s only the RSL that’s mad at him. We’re working with him on dissolving the contract that they should never have forced him to sign in the first place. But he has his passport again; he can come and go when he wants. I think this trip will be important, to keep him from feeling like he’s in exile here.”

“Sure, that’s great,” Sid says. He understands wanting to be back with family, to have that connection to your homeland. Actually, he should probably be heading back to Cole Harbour soon himself. He was planning to do that after the meeting with Geno; he’s not sure why he’s been hanging around Pittsburgh for so long, come to think of it.

He buys himself a plane ticket for a couple of days from now. Then he responds to Geno’s text: _Your legs are definitely too long._ Then, after hesitating for a minute, _Let me know when you land._

***

Sid spends the rest of August in Cole Harbour. When he comes back to Pittsburgh again, it’s the prepare for camp. He feels so much more confident doing it than he did last year when everything was new. This year he has a meal service and a cleaning service in place, and the Lemieux household feels like a second home to him.

It’s maybe a little weird that he’s not moving out. Sid knows that most guys in the league find a place of their own once they’re firmly established on a team. But he hates the idea of leaving and finding a new place. It always takes him forever to get used to the smells, and he can’t even imagine living alone. As long as Mario and Nathalie keep turning down his offers to leave, he’s staying.

So his home is familiar, and the team is familiar. Even the A on his chest is starting to feel familiar. There’s still no captain, which means the responsibility for team leadership falls to him and Gonch and Rex to make sure the team transitions into the new season smoothly. Which means a lot of meetings. Formal ones with the front office staff, and informal ones where he and Mario sit around and talk about their hopes and plans for the season.

Geno comes up a lot in both kinds of conversation. He’s basically guaranteed a spot on the team, and everyone’s concerned about how to make him comfortable and ensure that he can contribute to his full potential.

Sid’s not as worried as he would have expected to be. Geno’s going to have a lot to adjust to with a new country and a new league, but Sid has a good feeling about it. He’d have an even better feeling if it weren’t for Jordan Staal.

Jordan Staal. Third of the Staal brothers. Star center. Second overall draft pick. Beta wolf.

Mario didn’t check with Sid on that one. Probably because he didn’t know Staal was a wolf. In any case, Sid isn’t too worried about Jordan by himself. He’s seemed pretty easygoing when Sid’s crossed paths with him over the years—all of the Staals are, even Eric as alpha. Under other circumstances, Sid would even be excited to have Jordan on the team. It’s nice to have another wolf around.

With Geno there, though…

Sid’s seen enough of Geno to know he’ll work hard to curb the instinctive alpha desire to own everyone in the room. But that’s always harder when one of the people in the room is a wolf. And with Sid and Geno trying to adjust to each other—well, there are definitely moments leading up to camp where Sid wishes privately that Mario had used his number-two draft pick on Jonathan Toews instead.

Geno gets back from Russia a couple of days before the start of camp. Sid knows because Geno sends him a very proud picture of his unpacked suitcases. Sid still hasn’t seen him when he gets to camp that first morning, and he’s pretty sure, from the smells in the hallway, that Geno isn’t there yet.

That’s good. Especially because he’s pretty sure Jordan Staal _is._ This will make it easier to decide who to greet first.

Sid goes into the room, breathing in that mix of new and familiar scents that makes the new season snap into place in his body. He says hi to the guys he knows, bumps shoulders with Max, with Flower. Works his way nonchalantly over to the corner where Staal is changing.

It's a necessary move. Sid would probably have come over and greeted him anyway, a high draftee like that. But the wolf thing makes it extra important. Sid already has a text on his phone from Eric, asking him to look after his little brother—not a casual request, when it comes from one alpha to another.

Jordan is obviously aware of his presence as he comes over. Sid breathes in his scent: fresh, clean, taut with the excitement of the first day of his first NHL training camp. Vaguely familiar from the times they’ve met over the years. “Hey,” Sid says, holding out a hand. “Welcome to the team.”

Jordan takes his hand. He doesn’t bow his head or anything—no one really does that anymore, outside of formal pack rituals. But smiles. “Not on the team yet.”

“Just a matter of time,” Sid says. “I’ve seen you play.”

Jordan’s smile widens. “Eric said I’d be in good hands with you guys.”

And there it is: the same subtext as the text from Eric. Sid’s going to have to be careful with this one. “Yeah, the whole team hangs out a lot,” Sid says. “Let me know if you need anything, and I’m sure a lot of the other guys will want to be helpful, too.”

Jordan’s eyes narrow a little. He obviously picks up on Sid’s meaning—that he’s being welcoming, but not staking a claim—but he doesn’t know why Sid is being so careful. “Thanks,” he says. “Really excited to be…”

He keeps talking, but Sid stops listening. Geno’s entered the room.

That’s a thing his wolf senses do sometimes, where they arrive at a conclusion before they’ve even sent the component information to his brain. It feels like a hunch, and it could be wrong but is almost always correct. It’s not a surprise at all when Sid turns and sees Geno coming through the door.

He looks good. Better than Sid remembered him looking, actually. Sid doesn’t think he had this kind of impression when he first saw him: that thought of, _wow, that’s a good face._ Sid can smell him now, too: warm and earthy, like a deep layer of moss under freshly fallen autumn leaves. A tickle inside his nose, sending up little alert signals to his brain and body.

“Whoa,” Jordan says behind him, and Sid turns back to look at him. He’s a little wide-eyed, which means he probably just got a hit of Geno’s scent, too.

“Yeah, we got Malkin in the off-season,” Sid says.

“I heard,” Jordan says carefully. “I just didn’t…”

_I didn’t know he was an alpha._ Or maybe a wolf at all. There’s a new hint of unease in Jordan’s scent. Sid gets it—it’s never easy on betas and omegas when there are two alphas around.

“I’m gonna go say hi,” Sid says.

He approaches Geno, moving towards that slight feeling of pressure, an invisible breeze blowing against Sid’s skin. That feeling of another alpha in the room.

This has to be pretty intense for Geno. He’s walking into a whole room full of players, people who could make or break his career, people who could have already chosen another alpha over him. Sid’s place of strength. Sid can’t blame him for upping the alpha presence a little. But he smiles as Sid comes up to him, and that feeling of challenge in the air…lessens. Almost disappears entirely. “Sid,” Geno says.

“Hey.” Sid grins back. “How was your trip?”

There’s a moment of weirdness where Geno doesn’t respond right away. Then Sid realizes he probably didn’t understand. They’ve been texting for so long that he lost sight of how little English Geno speaks. “Sorry,” he says more slowly. “Russia? Good?”

Geno’s smile returns. “Good,” he agrees. He looks around the locker room. “Penguins hockey good,” he says firmly.

Sid laughs. “Yeah, definitely,” he says. “Penguins hockey very good.”

He sees Geno’s eyes come to rest on Jordan. Geno’s expression shifts, a little bit of wariness returning. He looks at Sid, and Sid nods. “Jordan Staal,” he says, and sees the recognition in Geno’s face. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Jordan smells nervous again when Sid and Geno come up to him. Two is a lot of alphas even if you trust that they’re going to behave themselves and not fight over you, and Jordan doesn’t know them yet.

“This is Geno Malkin,” Sid says, even though Jordan obviously knows. “Geno, this is Jordan Staal.”

“Jordan Staal. You second,” Geno says, taking his hand.

It takes a second for comprehension to dawn on Jordan’s face, and then he laughs. “Yeah! Best draft spot, definitely. Pretty exciting getting to come to Pittsburgh, right?”

Geno looks a little lost again. “Geno doesn’t speak a lot of English yet,” Sid says. “Gonch has been translating for him.”

“Sid,” Geno says, giving him such a look of injured pride that for a moment Sid thinks he’s actually offended him. “I’m English.”

It’s too much. Sid blinks at him for a moment then cracks up, laughing in the stupid honking way that he knows makes him sound dumb. Geno looks pleased with himself.

He should. It was well-played. It establishes them easily as friends instead of rivals. Jordan doesn’t smell nervous anymore.

They get called to the ice pretty soon after that. Things are chaotic, the way they always are on the ice at training camp: more people than there would be at any normal practice, a lot of them unfamiliar to each other, half of them anxious and desperate to prove that they belong here. The sea of scents alone is overwhelming.

Even in the midst of the chaos, though, it’s easy to see how good Geno is. It’s not always possible to evaluate someone’s skill from their first few moves on the ice; Sid reminds himself of that every time he takes the ice against an opposing team. Even the players who don’t seem flashy right away might surprise him with their abilities with the puck, in front of the net, at setting plays. But sometimes there are players you see for an instant and you just know they’re going to be great. It’s in the energy they bring the second they touch the ice. Sid’s played with people like that and against them; sometimes it’s misleading, but almost always it means they’re something special.

Geno has that something. Even in the first warm-up circles around the rink, it’s obvious. His body, so long and gangly off the ice, transforms to become smooth and efficient. He has the economy of motion that all really good skaters have: using every movement to maximum effect, so that nothing’s wasted and everything gets him closer to where he’s going. It’s beautiful to see.

He couldn’t have been this good when Sid faced him as an opponent at World Juniors. Sid would have remembered that.

There are other good guys out there. Jordan, definitely—he’s less polished than Geno, barely even nineteen, but by the end of the first morning, Sid’s convinced he’s going to have a spot this year. And Max is looking promising. Sid hopes he stays up this year.

Geno, though. Geno blows Sid away.

It’s always a little awkward, being that much in awe over someone’s hockey. Sid doesn’t want to go total fanboy on him. But his eyes are definitely drawn to Geno as soon as he walks into the room for lunch.

Well, there’s no reason Sid shouldn’t sit with him. Forging a strong relationship, right?

Geno’s already in conversation with Gonch when Sid sits down. He looks up and smiles but doesn’t interrupt his conversation. Sid gets distracted by a conversation with Flower in French, and after a few minutes he notices Geno watching him.

“Sid France?” Geno asks when Sid turns to look at him.

“French,” Sid corrects. “Or, well, I speak French. Québécois.”

“Québécois,” Geno repeats, mangling so badly that Sid laughs.

“Not quite, _Zhenya_ ,” he says.

Geno’s eyes light up. “Good! More good.”

“Better,” Sid says, grinning.

Geno looks confused. Gonch mutters something to him. “Ah. Better,” Geno repeats. “Sid better.”

Sid might have found a couple of pronunciation guides online; he’ll never tell. “I’ll get there,” he says.

He holds Geno’s smiling eyes for a minute and then looks back to see that Flower’s watching them with a distracted expression. “What?” Sid says.

He thinks maybe Flower’s annoyed that Sid got distracted from their conversation, but Flower doesn’t look annoyed. He shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says, still giving Sid that odd look.

***

They come out of camp with a great lineup. They have some great new offensive talent; it looks like Flower is going to be a permanent part of their lineup, which is more than Sid was letting himself hope for; and things with Geno are going even better than he expected. The other-alpha-in-the-room vibe is still there, but Sid finds it more energizing than anything. It makes him want to prove his worth, make Geno see what he’s capable of. There’s a feeling of optimism in the room coming out of camp, easy to lean into. It feels like the whole team is ready to hit the ground running.

Until, that is, halfway through their first preseason game, when Geno collides with LeClair on the ice and ends up with a dislocated shoulder.

Sid sees it happen. The bottom drops out of his stomach, and it’s all he can do to avoid going over the boards and doing something really dumb. Seeing a teammate injured always makes him want to make someone pay, and it’s even worse when it’s an accident, when there’s no clear enemy except another teammate who didn’t mean to do it.

Geno gets a prognosis of four to six weeks. It shouldn’t be that big a deal. Sid knows that one of the traits of a strong hockey team is adaptability: they need to be able to succeed with or without any individual player. But Geno’s been such a huge part of the way Sid’s been thinking about this season. They were doing so well at building a dynamic on the ice, and now it feels weirdly unbalanced, like the other pole is gone from a magnet.

Sid goes back and forth for a while on whether to visit Geno at home. He definitely would, if it were any other teammate. But visiting an alpha—it’s a thing to be cautious about under the best of circumstances, and right now Geno can’t even defend himself. Not that Sid is going to _attack_ him, obviously, but it’s one of those instinct things.

One the other hand, if he doesn’t visit, it could mess things up for them. Make it seem like he doesn’t care. And then he might not see Geno for weeks.

He ends up texting Geno to ask. He obsesses over the wording for a while before deciding simple is best. It’s not like Geno will pick up on nuance anyway. _Want me to come visit?_ he sends.

The reply comes a minute or two later. _Yes)))_

Sid goes over right away. No point in putting it off. He’s sweating a little as he rings the bell, even though there’s no reason for it—it’s not like Geno’s gotten mad at any of the things that another alpha could potentially have gotten mad at in the weeks they’ve known each other. But it still feels like a big deal.

Gonch is on the phone when he answers the door. “Sorry,” he mouths at Sid, and motions that he should go on through. “I’ll try to join you guys soon.”

“No problem,” Sid says, palms sweating more for no reason at all. He and Geno talk all the time; he doesn’t need Gonch there.

Geno’s in the den with the shades drawn, stretched out on the sofa. He looks up when Sid comes in, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Then he grins sleepily. “Sid.”

“Sorry,” Sid says, feeling awful. “If you were napping—”

“No, no,” Geno says, waving him to the armchair next to the sofa. He has a sling on the other arm. “Doctor say…” He holds two fingers close together, like he’s indicating something small. “Sleep.”

“Little sleep?” Sid says. “Oh. Uh, nap. The doctor said to nap.”

“Yes!” Geno says. “Nap. Doctor say nap. But nap…” He makes a disgusted face.

Sid laughs. “Oh, come on, you can’t hate naps. You’re a hockey player. Uh.” Fuck, he’s so bad at keeping things simple. “I mean…naps good.”

Geno makes a skeptical face. Sid laughs, feeling himself relax a little. “Hurts?” he asks, gesturing to Geno’s shoulder. “Does your shoulder hurt?”

“Eh,” Geno says, a noncommittal sound. Sid can smell the pain in his scent, though. It reminds him of the times he’s hurt himself over the years and had long weeks of recuperating while the ache slowly settled out of his tissue: a slightly sour scent, like something rotting under the earth.

There’s a bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table. If they’re not giving him the hard stuff, then in theory the pain isn’t that bad. But Sid knows how that feels in practice. “I’m sorry.”

Geno looks at Sid, something unreadable in his eyes. “Team.”

Sid fights down a feeling of helplessness. He knows what it’s like to feel like you’re letting down your team by not being there to play with them. He hates that this is happening to Geno so soon after he got here. “We’ll be okay,” he says.

“Win,” Geno says.

“Yeah, we’ll win together when you’re better.”

“No,” Geno says, more urgency in his tone. “Sid win. For me.”

“Oh,” Sid says. He—well, he probably shouldn’t feel so much about that. But Geno is out, and he wants Sid to win for him, and of course it’s gonna get to Sid. This is what team is all about. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can win for you. I—I promise.”

“Good.” Geno lets his eyes close, an extra-long blink.

“Hey,” Sid says. “I should go. You should—uh. Nap.”

He starts to get up, but Geno’s good hand darts out and grabs his arm. “Sid,” he says, looking intently at him.

Sid’s heart is suddenly beating harder for no reason. “You—want me to stay?”

It’s a super vulnerable thing to watch someone while they’re sleeping. Sid’s not sure he’d be comfortable with any wolf doing it to him, outside his family pack. But Geno nods.

“Okay,” Sid says. “Yeah, sure. I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Geno says. He slides his hand down Sid’s arm and takes his hand.

Sid’s so startled he almost pulls away. He gets it together just in time.

Geno’s hand clasps his, warm and dry. It…actually makes more sense that Geno wants him to stay, if this is what he wants. Touch is a pain reliever—for everyone, a little bit, but especially for wolves. Something about the oxytocin; Sid’s read articles about it and everything. The effect is strongest for pack touch, but touch from any wolf is better than touch from a human, especially if there’s a positive relationship between them.

Sid and Geno aren’t pack. They aren’t even the quasi-pack that often comes with team—they haven’t been playing together for long enough, for one thing, but also a pack doesn’t work when there are two alphas in it. They do have a positive relationship, though. Not a close one yet, but Geno doesn’t have a lot of close people in the U.S. Sid’s probably the wolf he knows best. And—and Sid’s safer than most wolves, because he’s another alpha. There’s no risk of it seeming like a pack come-on.

Geno’s breath is evening out. Sid laces their fingers together.

He can’t remember the last time he held hands with anyone. He isn’t touch-deprived, exactly: he’s never needed touch as much as some wolves he knows, and it hasn’t been that long since he was at home. He gets most of the touch he needs from the team and the Lemieux kids anyway. But maybe he’s running at a little bit of a deficit, because Geno’s hand in his feels really surprisingly good. Like it’s giving him something he didn’t know he needed.

This is the kind of thing that could get weird, if they did it too often. But this is a one-time thing. Geno’s hurt, and he’s team. If this is what he needs to be comfortable, Sid will give it to him, no questions asked.

Anything else Sid might feel while he's doing it...well, that doesn't matter. He's helping Geno. Anything else is beside the point.


	3. Chapter 3

Sid and Geno didn’t really specify the terms of their agreement that Sid would win for Geno while he was out. If the deal was to win all the games, then Sid definitely doesn’t keep his promise. But they do win the first one—the home opener, against the Flyers.

It’s a great game. Victory on home ice, defeat for the Flyers, a shutout for Flower. Sid has a goal and an assist. He couldn’t have asked for more.

The mood is jubilant in the room afterward, everyone toasting Flower. Sid’s in the middle of the mob when he sees Geno approaching, crisp in his game-day suit, and breaks free to go up to him, grinning. “Kept my promise.”

“Win,” Geno agrees, beaming, and grabs Sid’s arm with his good hand to pull him in.

Sid is expecting the arm-grasp. He’s not expecting the hug: he’s still all sweaty from the game, and he knows he’s getting it all over Geno’s suit. “Geno, I’m all gross,” he protests, but Geno ignores him.

“Win,” he says again, and, okay, it’s Geno’s suit. If he wants it to smell like Sid’s sweat, that’s his business.

Geno gets cleared to play a couple of weeks later, for their home game against the Devils. Sid finds out that morning, and it makes the whole day feel special: like the day of a home opener or a rivalry game or a game that might clinch the playoffs. The game where his team will finally be complete again.

It’s not really true, of course. Teams in the NHL are never static, and anyway Geno’s played a total of about half a preseason game with them. He shouldn’t be the piece that Sid needs to have in place in order to feel like the team is whole again. But the feeling keeps resurfacing, a burst of wellness like an injury finally starting to heal, and what’s the harm if Sid lets himself feel good about tonight’s game?

He doesn’t have much of a chance to talk to Geno during the pre-game. But Geno hangs back with him when the team heads down the tunnel. Sid is privately pleased about that: he likes the feeling that he’s the person on the team Geno wants to be next to as they head to the ice. It’s not until the team starts lining up, getting into an order for their entrances, that Sid realized Geno is actually hanging back _behind_ him.

Sid falters mid-step. Maybe this is nothing—maybe it’s happenstance, Geno just standing there randomly—but if it’s not…

It shouldn’t be that big a deal. Sid’s had enough teammates over the years tell him that, anyway. And he can acknowledge on an intellectual level that they’re probably right. But even formulating that thought feels dangerous. He comes onto the ice last. It’s what he does. If Geno thinks he’s going to take that from him—

Sid can feel his alpha hackles rising. He takes a deep breath. First things first; he doesn’t even know that there’s a problem yet.

He turns back toward Geno, making sure to keep his physical signals easy, unaggressive. “Hey,” he says. “So do you usually, uh—do you usually go last?”

Geno frowns, not understanding. Sid mimes it for him: the line of players, then Geno. Finally, horrible comprehension dawns on Geno’s face. “You?” he asks.

Fuck. “Yeah,” Sid says. And then, even though he knows he shouldn’t, that asserting himself will only lead to conflict they can’t afford—“All last year, with the Penguins.”

Geno looks at him for a moment. “Me three years Super League,” he says, flatly, his voice and face both closed off like Sid has never seen them.

Sid sees red. His blood pressure is suddenly through the roof, his heart thundering in his ears. The idea that Geno thinks he can do this—that he can come here and take what’s Sid’s—Sid’s city, Sid’s team, this place in the lineup that’s _his_ —

He takes a deep breath. His nose fills with the ash-and-smoke scent of an alpha gearing up for a challenge. Geno’s presence is suddenly a force against this skin again, that palpable feeling of alpha in the room. He’s challenging Sid, because—because Sid felt like he could challenge him first.

Because it’s Sid’s city. Sid’s team. The team where Sid holds a scoring title, and wears an A, and, hell, is living in the owner’s house. The team where Sid is supposed to be a leader.

He hears his mother’s voice in his head: _Alphas are the ones who make other wolves feel welcome,_ and god _dammit._

He takes a deep breath, calming himself despite the alpha scents in the air. “I’m sorry,” he says, putting all the sureness he can into his voice. “You’re right. You should go last.”

Geno studies him for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out if Sid means it. Then—before Sid can understand what’s happening—he walks around to the other side of Sid, leaving Sid last.

“What? No.” Sid thinks maybe Geno didn’t understand—but Geno’s looking back at him levelly, absolute certainly in his face. “No, you can go last, I told you—”

“Sid last,” Geno says, a rumble in his voice that makes Sid’s skull vibrate.

Something panicky flutters in Sid’s chest. He’s not sure what he’s upset about—this is what he wanted; he just has to stand here and accept it—but the idea of doing so makes his stomach flip. It feels like the tunnel is rushing by him, wind in his ears. “No, please,” he says. “Geno, it’s yours, please. Please take it.”

He’s not sure if Geno understands. He tries to find more words, but all the ones that aren’t _please_ seem to have vanished from his head. He can only look pleadingly at Geno.

Geno looks back, his face a mix of expressions that Sid can’t read. There’s another long moment, and then finally, finally, he circles back around to stand on Sid’s other side.

Sid sags with relief. He doesn’t even know why, but he’s so, so relieved. “Thank you,” he says. “I—thanks.”

Geno smiles at him. The ash-and-smoke scent is gone from the air, Geno’s scent bright like sunlight again. “Sid good,” he says, his voice a warm rumble.

The words burst like sparkles on Sid’s skin. He sucks in a breath, and the feeling spreads through his whole body: starbursts of warmth tingling all the way to his core.

He opens his mouth, but he can’t find anything to say. He wants to do—he’s not even sure. But he has to do something—has to—

“Yo, Sid, keep up!” Clairy says, and Sid jerks his eyes away. Turns toward Clairy, to where the team has already started to go onto the ice. It’s time to go.

He gets his feet under him and stumbles after Clairy. “Hey, aren’t you usually last?” Clairy asks when Sid catches up.

“Geno’s last now,” Sid says. His chest is still flickering, little flares of light. Excitement, anticipation of the game. Gotta focus.

They call his name, and he bursts onto the ice. The cold and the noise of the crowd hit him in the face and help to clear his head. He’s back in Mellon Arena, and the ice is solid under his feet. Game time.

A moment later, Geno comes out, long legs tearing into the ice. Sid looks back at him and feels something click into place. The team is back together now. Time to play, and time to win.

***

They don’t win. Not that night, anyway. But Geno scores his first goal in the NHL, a fucking beauty against Brodeur, and they keep the Devils to a 2-1 lead.

They win the next game. They also win the one after that, and they keep it up for a five-game win streak. By the end of it, Sid has four goals and Geno six, and more than half of those goals came on an assist from each other.

It’s amazing, the degree to which Sid feels like having Geno on the ice takes him up a level. The rest of the team is coming together, too: Jordan’s skating well, and Flower is killing it, and Max gets called up from Wilkes-Barre and looks like he’s going to stay. Sid feels like they’re riding a team-wide high.

They go on a quick road jaunt to New York at the start of the streak, and when they get back, Geno says to Sid, “You come me house.”

“Hm?” Sid says.

“You. Sid.” Geno has a hopeful look in his eyes. “Come house tomorrow day?”

Geno’s been working on talking to people more without Gonch there as a translator. Sid’s seen him on the plane poring over a language book. It seems to be helping, but Sid doesn’t want to misunderstand him. “You’re—inviting me to your house tomorrow?”

Geno nods. “Sid come?”

“Uh, sure,” Sid says, and Geno beams at him.

Sid’s not sure what to expect as he heads over. Does Geno have some purpose for inviting him, or are they just going to hang out? That should be fine, obviously, but not knowing what to expect from a situation always makes him a little nervous. What if it’s just the two of them, and they can’t figure out how to talk to each other? What if it gets awkward?

Geno greets him at the door. “Sid!” he says. “Beer.”

He says the word like he’s proud of knowing it. “Sure,” Sid says. He laughs when Geno holds up a frosty bottle of Molson. “Did you get that because of Canada?”

“Canada,” Geno says very seriously.

They end up playing NHL 06, which came out last month. Geno’s copy, Sid notices, has a signature scrawled across the case, right over the picture of Alexander Ovechkin. “Oh hey, are you guys friends?” Sid asks.

Geno looks at the case. “Hmph,” he says, which makes it very clear what kind of gesture the signed copy was.

He kicks Sid’s ass at the game. Not a total surprise, when it’s the first time Sid’s played this version. Normally Sid hates losing, especially when the other person is clearly enjoying winning—but somehow he can’t bring himself to get fully annoyed about it this time. Maybe because Geno is such a dork about it.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll beat you next time,” Sid says, when they get to the end and Geno cheers for himself.

He intends for next time to be right away—but when Geno’s in the kitchen getting more beer, Sid gets distracted by the English learning book on the end table. “Sid want teach?” Geno asks when he comes back.

“What? Oh.” It wasn’t what Sid was intending when he picked up the book. But: “Sure,” he says, turning to the first blank worksheet.

It’s very different from playing a video game. Obviously; the two activities are nothing alike. But Sid hadn’t quite counted on the way everything would feel a little too quiet without the TV on in front of them. He can feel Geno’s eyes on him as he starts at the top of the lesson on days of the week.

“Okay, first is Monday,” Sid says. “Then…”

Geno frowns, thinking. “Tursday.”

“Nope,” Sid says. “Tuesday.”

“Monday, Tuesday,” Geno repeats.

“Then…”

Geno grins. “Sid say.”

“Hey, I’m teaching you.”

Geno just grins at him beguilingly, and nudges him in the shin with his foot.

Sid rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. He guesses it’s legit to teach Geno something before he quizzes him on it.

They go through the days of the week, Sid saying them and Geno repeating them. Geno doesn’t take his foot away from Sid’s shin.

It’s more distracting than Sid would have expected. He’s used to touching his teammates, but this touch feels extra noticeable. Probably because of the alpha thing. His body is instinctively on the alert.

He doesn’t let it throw him off, until he gets to the middle of the months of the year and Geno starts twitching his toes. “Sid?” Geno prompts when Sid’s trailed off.

“Sorry,” Sid says. It’s not like Geno’s deliberately stroking his leg with his toes. He’s just fidgeting. “August.”

“August,” Geno says, eyes on Sid’s mouth. He’s been doing that a bunch, but for some reason this time it makes Sid’s cheeks feel hot. He drops his eyes to the workbook.

“September,” he says.

Geno doesn’t repeat it this time. “Sid,” he says instead.

Sid looks up. Geno’s just looking at him intently. “What?”

Geno puts his hand out and uses a finger to tip Sid’s chin up. Sid’s heart stutters over a few beats, his eyes widening.

“Say,” Geno says.

Sid doesn’t even register the word. His pulse is thumping hard throughout his whole body. Geno has his finger under Sid’s chin, baring Sid’s throat, like he wants to…like he wants…

Oh. Like he wants to watch Sid’s mouth. Right. Sid swallows hard to get his throat working again. “September,” he says.

“September,” Geno repeats, and smiles at him. He drops his finger. Sid has to fight not to drop his chin.

“Well,” he says, when they’ve gotten through December, “I should go.”

Geno walks him to the door. “Sid come more time?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Sid says. He leaves, head still hazy with that moment of Geno’s finger under his chin.

***

The two of them hang out again a few days later, this time with Gonch and Ksenia and Flower and Véro. It’s a good night; nothing weird happens. Then they go on the road, win one against the Kings to bring their streak to five, and break it immediately with losses against the Sharks and the Ducks.

It’s a crushing way to end a road trip. Sid feels it in the room, on the bus, on the plane on the way back. This is something he’s trying to get better at: gauging how he can help all the different members of the team deal with something like this. Some people need to hear something encouraging after a loss, and for some people that just makes it worse. It’s tiring, trying to judge which is which and be there for people in the way that they need, and Sid is relieved to go home afterward and crash.

They have a day off the next day to let everyone recover from the trip. Sid’s planning to spend it catching up on personal stuff, hang out with Mario and Nathalie and the kids—but by mid-afternoon, he’s feeling antsy.

He ends up texting Geno. _Want to hang out?_

Geno’s response comes pretty fast. _Yes Gonch people here_

Sid pauses, frowning at the message. Is Geno saying yes, he would want to hang out, but he can’t because of Gonch’s people? Or does he want Sid to come hang out with all of them? Or the third option: he wants Sid to invite him somewhere else, so that he can escape?

This would be easier without the language barrier. But Geno’s never gotten annoyed before when Sid’s asked something based on a guess. He starts to type, _Want to go get food?_ Then he stops, considering.

If they go out to eat, it will be loud and crowded, and it’s hard enough to understand Geno as it is. But inviting Geno over to his house feels like a lot. Sid’s had teammates over before—well, Flower and Véro, at the end of last year. He doesn’t do it very often. Partially that’s a wolf territory thing, and partially it’s just Sid. He’s never liked people in his space, even when it’s technically space he’s borrowing from Mario.

But he doesn’t want to deal with crowds, and he doesn’t want to get recognized. He just wants to see Geno. _Want to come to my place?_ he sends.

He gets a response a minute or two later. _Yes))))_

Sid’s getting used to feeling nervous before he does things with Geno. There are so many dynamics at play: a new friendship, a potential culture clash, two alphas forging a connection instead of a rivalry. Combine that with having someone over to his house, and it’s not surprising that Sid’s stomach is jumping even more than usual when Geno pulls up.

Geno comes in and makes a show of looking around. Sid’s surprised by the obviousness of it: usually an alpha would try to seem like they’re _not_ looking too closely at another alpha’s home, casing the joint for weaknesses. It’s a really antiquated taboo, though, and it doesn’t feel invasive when Geno does it. It just feels—Sid ends up hovering nervously, forcibly keeping his legs from vibrating.

Finally Geno turns to him with a big smile on his face. “Sid home good,” he says.

Sid feels an unexpected rush of warmth, even though it’s not like he bought the house. He didn’t even decorate it. “Thanks,” he says. Then, “Did you bring lunch? You didn’t have to do that.”

They eat the sushi Geno brought on the couch in the living room, watching tape from their losses against the Ducks and the Sharks. Sid’s always found it helpful to study their losses in more detail than they do during team review sessions. He’s relieved when Geno gets into it, doesn’t chirp him for the extra study time.

“Slow,” Geno says, when their unit is on the power play.

Sid backs up the tape a few seconds. “Not slow,” he says. “Sloppy.”

Geno shakes his head. “Not slow skate,” he says. “Slow—” He mimes looking in two directions and choosing between them.

“Oh yeah,” Sid says. “Yeah, exactly. We have to make faster choices.”

They end up mapping out plays, using the action figures Sid keeps around for this purpose. It’s surprisingly easy to communicate: Geno knows more words about hockey than he does about other stuff, and the action figures step in when words fail. Plus it’s just not that hard to understand what Geno means when he talks about hockey. It’s always intuitive, even when it’s an idea Sid wouldn’t have thought of on his own.

They get so into it that Sid only realizes how late it is when his phone rings. “My mom,” he says to Geno. “I’ll call her back—”

But Geno’s already getting up, shaking his head. “I’m go,” he says.

It makes sense. There’s no reason for Sid to feel disappointed. “Sure, of course,” he says, getting up to follow Geno to the door.

He hovers and watches Geno put his shoes on. “Hey,” he says, after a brief internal argument. “You know Friday?”

Geno nods. “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.”

Sid grins briefly. “No, I mean—Friday’s the full moon.”

Geno’s face instantly gets serious. That’s a phrase every wolf is gonna make sure to know.

“We have a game, obviously,” Sid says. “I mean, you know that already. I was just thinking, though, maybe after…”

Sid is babbling. He needs to spit it out. “Do you want to go running with me?” he asks.

His face gets hot as soon as the words are out. It’s objectively a ridiculous question to be asking. It’s not unheard of to invite an out-pack wolf to run with you when you’re both away from home—but not another alpha. Sid spent months last year finding a place to run at the full moon that _didn’t_ have another alpha around. It’s just too hard, suppressing the instincts to fight when the moon is full. Geno’s going to think he’s a lunatic.

Sid almost opens his mouth to take it back. But Geno’s face breaks into a smile that’s astonishingly bright. “Yes,” he says. “Is good.”

Sid squints at him. “Really?”

Geno nods. “I’m run. I’m…you run.” He makes a face like he knows that wasn’t right.

Sid laughs. “You’ll run with me,” he says. “Well—okay. Yeah, okay. That’s great.”

“Great,” Geno agrees, and fist-bumps him 

It’s still weird, definitely. Sid still feels like maybe he shouldn’t have suggested it. But if Geno doesn’t think it’s too weird to move forward with…well, Sid's the one who suggested it. He's not about to argue against it now.


	4. Chapter 4

Sid doesn’t start seriously worrying about running with Geno until the next day at practice, when Jordan Staal sidles up to him.

“Hey,” Jordy says. “Do you know of any good places to run around here?”

His tone is casual. He could be asking about anything—but he obviously isn’t. “Yeah, I know a few,” Sid says slowly. It’s not Jordy’s first full moon with the team, but it’s the first one where they’re not on the road. “I can make you a list if you want.”

Jordy nods. “I was talking to Eric about it,” he says. “He said it was okay if I wanted to run with someone outside the pack.”

Sid’s eyebrows go up automatically. That’s…pretty unsubtle, actually. About as close as Jordy can come to asking Sid, an alpha, for an invitation to run with him.

Normally Sid would go ahead and give him one. But the circumstances make that a little more complicated. “That’s great,” he says. “I was actually just talking to Geno about running together.”

Now it’s Jordy’s turn to look surprised. “Oh,” he says. “That’s—wow.”

“You’re welcome to join us if you want,” Sid says.

Jordy smells nervous again. “Will that be…I mean, the two of you…”

“We can keep it together,” Sid says. He’s really, really hoping that’s true. Having another wolf there…well, it’s gonna open up a potential-dominance can of worms he can only hope they’re ready for. “We’ll do our best,” he amends.

“Well…okay,” Jordy says. He doesn’t sound totally sure about it. “I’ll join you guys after the game, I guess?”

“Sounds great,” Sid says, more optimistically than he feels.

He has to tell Geno about it after that. It’s the kind of communication he’d like to use Gonch for, since it’s important to be clear, but he also can’t tell Gonch about it without outing them all as wolves. In the end he pulls Geno aside after the game that evening and says, “Jordy is running with us on Friday.”

Geno takes a minute to parse that. “Jordy Friday?” he says.

Sid nods.

“Okay,” Geno says easily.

Sid looks at him doubtfully for a moment. Does he really think it’s that easy? Not that Sid thinks it’ll be a total disaster or anything, but it seems like Geno doesn’t even get why it might be a problem.

Geno’s starting to look confused under Sid’s gaze. “Okay?” he says again, a question this time.

Geno _has_ to know why it could be a problem. Anyone with a brain could figure that out. He just doesn’t seem to think it _will_ be one. And he’s probably right: the two of them have a strong enough foundation of cooperation by this point to get through it. Sid should have more confidence in them.

He lets his face relax into a smile. “Okay,” he says, and Geno offers him a fist-bump. Sid returns it and tries to keep his smile from sliding into silly-grin territory.

***

Sid starts to feel the pull of the full moon mid-day Thursday. By Friday morning, it’s strong, and Sid feels like he does every month: itchy in his skin, like his shape is wrong, like all he wants to do is get up and move. Which he gets to do, fortunately, because they have a game that night.

Sid knows a lot of other wolves in hockey hate having games on full moon nights. He’s heard enough of them bitch about it over the years. Sid kind of loves it, though. He feels so charged up, ready to chase and run and hunt, and he gets to do that in the context of his favorite thing in the world: a hockey game.

They don’t win the game. Sid gets an assist on Geno’s goal, but the Sens beat them 6-3. It chafes, rubs against the part of Sid that wants to go out there and dominate, but the good thing about the full moon is that it’s distracting. The mood in the locker room is grim, but Sid still feels the call of the moon, and it’s hard to stay focused on frustration when there’s a whole world to run in.

He and Geno and Jordy meet up in the parking lot. They’re quiet in an uncomfortable way as they get into Sid’s car, but after a few minutes Geno puts on the radio and starts singing along to Since U Been Gone. It’s hard not to join in with something like that. Then Milkshake comes on, and it turns out Geno knows all the words but only phonetically, and soon Sid is laughing so hard he can barely drive.

He brings them to the place he usually runs, a stretch of conservation land outside town he found at the beginning of last season. There was already a pack that ran there when Sid found it, but they stick to the northern end, and they’ve been good about Sid taking over the south. It has good forest, good smells, good cover from the city. He thinks they’re gonna like it.

The three of them pile out of the car at the edge of the park. It’s a clear night, cold in the way that means winter is right around the corner, and the moon is perfectly visible. Sid tilts his head up to the sky and feels the thrill in his blood.

They strip in the nearest stand of trees and shift. The change hits Sid like a rush. The world is different like this: clearer in some ways, muted in others. Sight is suddenly unimportant; smell is even more vivid than usual. But it’s more than that. The wolf just doesn’t care as much about the things Sid worries about in his normal life. The minutiae of his day-to-day life is still there, but it’s harder to access, like it’s something he hasn’t thought about in ten years. And all the things he tells himself are important, all the justifications and compromises of civilization, they all fall away. The wolf doesn’t care. It knows that what really counts is in your blood and in your nose and in your paws on the ground.

Sid’s paws hit the ground, newly formed. The world is alive with a hundred sounds he couldn’t hear a moment before. And the scents—he could narrate a whole history of this tiny patch of ground: the people who’ve walked on it, the plants and animals that have lived and died here, the insects and microbes that are turning their flesh into new earth. But all of that fades into background fast. There’s only one scent here that matters.

Sid’s smelled a lot of wolves over the years. There are always some whose scents are easier to pick up on for whatever reason. Sometimes it’s how long it’s been since they’ve shifted; sometimes it’s how well Sid knows them, how good he’s gotten at picking their scent out of a crowd. Dynamic affects it too, of course. Sid’s way better at scenting omegas and other alphas than he is betas. Even after accounting for all of that, though, there are some individuals who stand out to him more vividly for no reason he could have predicted. And he’s never experienced that more strongly than he is right now.

There are two wolves here now. Their scents are way more noticeable than the other animal and plant life around them. But after Sid breathes in a couple of times, one of their scents seems to fall away, and there’s only one that remains, vivid as glaring neon: Geno.

Geno looms next to him, huge and shaggy and so brightly scented he’s all Sid can smell. He smells like—like hot earth that’s been baking under an autumn sun. Like green things turning red and orange at the change of the season. Sid wants his attention on him more than he even wants to run.

He dances in front of Geno, feinting like he’s going to attack. Geno responds, training his dark-gold eyes on him, and when Sid is sure Geno’s going to follow, he darts away into the forest.

Geno comes after him. Sid feels him following in the thud of their footfalls on the earth: _yes, yes._ Geno’s going to catch him—Geno’s almost catching him—not quite. Sid’s too fast. He puts on a burst of speed, knowing Geno will chase him, wanting it: Geno pursuing him, the two of them racing together, giddy and free, united in the spill of light from the moon.

Sid hits a fall of leaves and loses his footing. The next moment, Geno’s there, bursting over a fallen log and landing on Sid. Sid rolls around quick, but Geno is on him, and they wrestle for a moment before Sid gets free and skips away. He feels Geno’s attention on him like a second heartbeat. They circle each other, attention locked in, each trying a few tentative snaps. Not yet, though—not yet—Sid’s about to break away, lead Geno on another chase, when another wolf barrels into their clearing.

Sid almost turns angrily on the invader. But no—there was a third wolf with them. That’s right. Sid just forgot in the thrill of the chase.

They get into a three-way game of tag. Sid doesn’t mind too much: he’s willing to chase the other wolf a little, especially if Geno’s watching. But sometimes Geno chases the other wolf, and Sid doesn’t like that at all. He needs to do something about it.

He waits until their game has split them up momentarily and the other wolf is out of sight. Then he finds Geno and growls at him, snapping a challenge, before turning and leading chase.

Geno follows. Sid can hear him, smell him, feel him right behind, and the knowledge sings in him with every beat of his feet against the ground. Sid is chased. Wanted. Chosen.

They run for maybe half a mile, a heart-pounding race through the trees, and then Sid hits a clearing and turns. Geno goes for him, and Sid ducks, darting out of the way. Dancing. Letting Geno come close but not letting him touch. It’s exhilarating. The moon in his fur, the night air in his lungs, and Geno coming closer and closer.

Geno’s going to catch him. In a moment, one of the times Geno lunges for him, Sid will let it happen. The anticipation licks through him like fire.

Then: a howl on the wind. Geno stops. He tilts his head back in the direction they came and sniffs at the air.

Sid doesn’t like that. He whines and leaps back a bit, inviting Geno to follow.

Geno doesn’t follow. He pads away, toward the source of the howl.

That’s not okay. That’s not okay at all. They don’t need to care about some other wolf. Sid leaps in front of Geno and snaps at him, cutting him off.

Geno growls. It’s a low growl, starting deep in his chest and rippling over Sid’s fur. Sid crumples like his strings have been cut. His knees buckle and he hits the ground, flattened by the sound. 

For a long moment he lies there, panting into the dirt. The weight of the growl is heavy on him. He did something wrong. Geno’s not happy with him. Geno is mad.

Then, a touch: Geno’s nose at Sid’s neck. He nudges him, then licks, his tongue rasping warm and rough against Sid’s coat.

The touch melts through Sid, soothing and shivery-good. It melts everything else away. Geno isn’t mad at him. Geno is happy; Geno thinks he’s good. Geno licks again, and Sid rolls over with the movement of the tongue, easy, and tips his head back to expose his belly and throat.

Geno nuzzles his face against Sid’s and growls again. This time the growl feels good. It shudders through Sid, and everything else runs out of his body like water. Nothing left in the world but Geno: his nose pressed to Sid’s neck, his heavy panting breath, his scent sweet and strong and turning Sid’s head.

Sid’s body feels taut like a string. Something is going to happen. Sid doesn’t know what, but he can feel it—can feel it in Geno’s nose pressed to the front of his throat, breath puffing hotly. Whatever it is, Sid wants it. _Needs_ it. Needs it to be soon—needs it to be now—needs it more than he needs air—

Another howl cuts through the air. Geno’s head jerks up.

_No,_ Sid thinks. But it’s too late: the moment snaps, and cold rushes in in its place.

They were—what were they doing? Sid is on the ground. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling a little. Gets his belly under cover.

Geno is standing there, eyes fixed on him, alpha scent thick in the air. Sid struggles to catch his breath. They weren’t going to do anything. Sid wouldn’t—Sid couldn’t have.

Jordy’s howl sounds again. A plaintive howl, the cry of a wolf who’s lost his pack. Geno swivels his head towards it. Then he turns back, takes a step towards Sid.

No. Sid can’t. He turns and takes off, sprinting away through the night.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a dumb thing to do, running through the streets in wolf form. Pittsburgh isn’t the worst city for wolves—there aren’t enough of them in the area for human cops to care all that much. But Pittsburgh, like basically every city in the U.S. and Canada, has laws against wolves running in public outside designated areas. If there’s ever a night the cops will pay attention, it’s gonna be the night of the full moon.

Sid can’t think well enough to do anything else, though. The one thing that occurs to him—the obvious thing, shifting back and taking the car—he can’t do that. It would mean abandoning Geno and Jordy without transportation. And he doesn’t want to shift back, anyway. He wants to stay in the wolf mind, to not have to think about anything beyond the present moment.

The wolf mind isn’t great at human problem solving. It can’t think of any way to get home besides running. So Sid runs.

He gets lucky: he manages to duck out of sight of cars, and he doesn’t run into any cops. The moon is just starting to sink behind the trees when he gets to streets that smell like home.

He paws at his own front door for a couple of minutes before he remembers that there’s no one inside to let him in. He can’t get in by himself—not without shifting back. It’s Mario’s guest house, and it’s never been adapted for wolves.

Sid sits back on his haunches and whines. Then he circles around back and lies down under some bushes in the garden.

He doesn’t usually want to sleep on full moon nights. Too much energy. He doesn’t feel like he has a lot of energy right now, though; he feels strangely drained. Achy, like he’s been bruised somewhere inside. He curls up on the cold ground, hides his nose in the circle of his body, and closes his eyes.

***

Sid wakes up when light filters through the bushes. The world is pale and gray. His wolf body feels stiff, shaky, cold from sleeping on the half-frozen dirt.

He…doesn’t usually sleep out here. He doesn’t usually sleep in wolf form at all. It was a full moon last night, that’s right—but he doesn’t usually sleep on full moon nights, either.

Something happened last night. Something that was—

Sid jumps up and shakes the dirt from his fur. It doesn’t matter. It’s a new day: look, the sun is up. The team is flying to Carolina today, and Sid needs to get ready. All he has to do right now is figure out how to get inside his own house. Anything isn’t important.

***

He gets to the airport lounge on the early side. Mario drives; Mario usually drives when the two of them are going someplace together.

The airport lounge smells weird. Everything’s smelled kind of weird today, actually: Sid’s clothing, the eggs he had for breakfast, the inside of Mario’s car. Sid hopes he hasn’t picked up a cold from sleeping outside. He doesn’t want anything to throw off his game.

Flower gets there about five minutes after Sid. “What, you don’t answer your phone anymore?” he asks.

“Huh?” Sid says. He digs his phone out of his pocket: two missed calls from Flower. “Shit. Sorry, I guess I haven’t been watching my phone this morning.”

“Apparently.” Flower narrows his eyes at Sid. “Everything okay?”

“What? Of course.” Sid realizes he’s been bouncing his leg. He makes himself stop.

“Okay,” Flower says slowly. “Anyway, I was just going to ask—do you have your phone charger?”

“Uh, yeah, probably,” Sid says. Packing was kind of a blur, but he probably brought it.

“Thank fuck,” Flower says. “I left mine in the study. I didn’t realize until the way over, and it’s Véro’s birthday today and—”

He keeps talking. Sid stops listening, though, because Geno walks into the room.

He walks in, and a bolt shoots through Sid’s spine, pinning him to the seat. Geno is—he’s—Sid can’t look directly at him, but he can’t avoid seeing him, either: his game-day suit, his collar open, his hair sticking up like he didn’t brush it after his shower. And the scent of him. It rolls through Sid’s body like an earthquake: the scent of crisp night air mixed with deep rich earth thick with dark-shadowed foliage. The scent of an alpha the morning after a full moon.

Sid’s fingers curl on the arm rests. His breath comes in pants. He knows what he’s going to do before he does it, but he can’t stop himself: he raises his eyes to look at Geno.

Geno is looking straight back at him.

It’s like looking into the center of a spotlight. Sid jerks, fixated, blinded to anything else. His heart slams against the walls of his ribs.

He should look away, but he can’t. Geno holds his gaze, dark eyes on him from across the room, and Sid feels his body slowly changing in response. An Alka-Seltzer tablet, dropped in water and fizzing over.

He can’t look away. Can’t move his eyes at all. Can’t catch his breath. If he keeps looking, he’s gonna—

Sid squeezes his eyes shut. It feels like holding up his hands to stop the wind. He can still feel the pressure against his skin. After a moment, though—the phantom pressure lessens. It goes away.

Sid opens his eyes again. Geno’s turned away and is moving toward the far side of the lounge.

Sid’s lungs deflate. The fizzing beneath his skin dies. He follows Geno with his eyes, tracking his movements across the lounge.

Until a hand waves in front of his face. Sid blinks.

“Sid? Sid! You there?”

It’s Flower. Sid shakes his head a little. “Uh. What?”

Flower huffs in frustration. “Your phone charger. Can I borrow it? Véro will kill me if I can’t call her today.”

“Oh. Yeah, definitely,” Sid says. He digs into his bag. The charger is right there on top; he hands it to Flower.

“Thanks,” Flower says. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re super jumpy.”

“Yeah. Just, you know—mornings,” Sid says.

Geno’s sitting now, on the other side of the lounge, typing on his phone. Sid can only see the barest sliver of his face.

It’s fine. Whatever this is—Sid’s just a little tired, is all. He’ll be okay after he gets some rest.

***

He manages to nap on the plane. He’s feeling better once they get to Raleigh: more balanced. But as they’re waiting to board their bus to the hotel, Clairy taps him on the back. “Hey,” he says. “Is something going on with you and Jordy?”

“Me and Jordy?” Sid says. He doesn’t think anything’s going on with him and Jordy. He hasn’t even talked to him this morning.

“He just tried to talk to you and you, like, totally blanked him,” Clairy says. “We have a problem there?”

Sid blinks. He doesn’t remember that happening. He walked over here with Flower; then he went to the trash can to throw out the remains of a Power Bar from his bag; then he came over here. That was it.

He looks over by the trash cans. Jordy is standing over there, frowning into space.

“I,” Sid says, then can’t come up with anything to follow it with.

“You should maybe talk to him,” Clairy says.

Sid goes back over to the trash cans. “Hey. Were you trying to say something?” he says to Jordy. “Sorry, I totally spaced.”

Jordy’s face lightens a couple of degrees. “Oh. Yeah, you’re probably still—like, Geno said you weren’t feeling well last night.”

Last night. Right. “Yeah, I, uh, I guess I ate something weird,” Sid says. “I’m feeling way better now, though.”

“Good,” Jordy says. “Hey, I was wondering—I know we’re not gonna have a lot of time here. But maybe, if we can make it work—would you be up for getting together with Eric?”

Eric. Holy shit, that’s right. Sid usually makes a point to think about what wolves he’ll be facing, but he totally forgot about this. “Of course,” he says. “Yeah, that’s a great idea. Go ahead and set something up.”

Jordy beams. “Great,” he says. “I’ll invite Geno.”

Sid flinches. “Geno?” he says, before he can stop himself.

Jordy’s scent shades toward wariness. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Is—is that a problem?”

It can’t be a problem. It can’t be a problem because Geno can’t be a problem for Sid. And it can’t be a problem because Jordy has to invite Geno: he’s the other wolf on the team, and he’s Sid’s fellow alpha. It would be worse than ludicrous to have a meeting with Eric without him present. It would be insulting. It would be one degree shy of an outright challenge.

Sid takes a deep breath and relaxes his jaw. “Of course not,” he says. “Looking forward to it.”

***

The meeting is slated for the Pens’ hotel when they get back from skate. Sid leaves his stuff in the room he shares with Flower and goes down the the conference room.

He stops for a moment before going in to take a few deep breaths. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine, because he has to be fine.

He’s braced when he pulls open the door. He breathes in once, then relaxes: Geno isn’t there.

Eric is already standing up, coming over to shake Sid’s hand. He’s just as tall as Jordy, but it reads differently on him: it makes Sid’s alpha hackles twitch. Eric is pretty obviously trying not to be confrontational, smiling widely, but Sid still has that slight, hard-to-suppress need to establish his own territory.

It’s such a familiar reaction. It’s so easy to handle. Sid is so glad to feel it.

They shake hands, grips firm but not overpowering. Eric’s scent is just like Sid remembers: bright and clean, like the wide blue Minnesota sky. On the other side of the table, Jordy’s taken on a little of the same scent: brighter than Sid’s ever smelled him before. Happier. “Hey, thanks for making the time,” Eric says. “I know it’s tough on a travel and game day.”

“Anything for Jordy,” Sid says.

“I just wanted a chance to talk to you and—oh, hey, here he is,” Eric says.

Eric didn’t need to say anything. Sid can feel the exact moment Geno steps into the room, a sharp prickle between his shoulder blades. The skin all over his body tightens two sizes.

He grips the back of the chair in front of him and doesn’t move while Geno comes into the room and greets Eric. Sid’s breathing through his mouth, but it doesn’t help; Geno’s scent is still everywhere. Sid’s range of vision narrows to a single spot on the table.

Somehow they get seated. Sid’s chair is next to Geno’s. It’s not what he would have chosen; but Jordy and Eric are sitting next to each other on the other side of the table, and there are two chairs directly opposite them. Sid couldn’t sit anywhere else without it being weird.

There’s a lot of wolf scent in the room. Sid’s own scent has never been that obvious. He hopes that saves him now.

“Like I was telling Sid,” Eric says. “I just wanted a chance to say hi and thank you for taking Jordy in. It’s been great for him to have wolves to welcome him onto the team.”

There’s a short pause before Sid jerks to attention and clears his throat. He forgot he’d have to be the person to answer the questions. “It’s—yeah, great to have him,” he says, only a little hoarsely. “Always nice to have another wolf on the team.”

“Sid, you and Mario are pretty tight, right?” Eric says. “What’s your impression of team leadership so far?”

Geno is sitting so close. It’s not closer than any of the other chairs around the table are set, but it feels like Sid is pressed right up against the furnace of his body. “Yeah, Mario’s great,” Sid says. “I, uh, I don’t think he knows about Jordy? But he knows about me, and he’s cool with it. He would never let anyone get away with bullshit about wolves.”

“That’s…pretty unusual,” Eric says. “You guys are lucky to have that.”

Geno probably isn’t following this conversation at all. He has his polite-interest face on. “Yeah, we’re—really lucky,” Sid says. He curls his fingers around his armrests. “You’re not out to your team?”

“Yeah, right,” Eric says with a snort. He starts talking about some of the stuff he’s heard in the locker room over the past few years—the milder stuff, if Sid’s guess is right.

Sid glances back over at Geno. He’s leaning back in chair, arms splayed wide—nothing weird. But it makes the muscles in his arms bulge, underneath the sleeves of his t-shirt.

“And there haven’t been problems with the two of you?” Eric says.

Sid snaps his head up. “What?”

“I mean, two alphas.” Eric shrugs. “Jordy said you guys even went on a moon run together last night? That’s wild.”

“Um,” Sid says. Then can’t find any words to follow it with. He glances over at Geno.

Geno seems to realize there’s something happening that he should respond to. “Sorry,” he says, straightening up and spreading his hands in apology. “English.”

“Oh right, yeah,” Eric says. “I didn’t even think about that. The language barrier, plus the alpha thing—it really hasn’t been a problem?”

Sid needs to say something. A casual comment, a brushoff, something that will communicate that everything’s fine. His mind is completely blank.

He looks at Geno. Swallows hard. “Eric says—you and me.” He gestures between the two of them. “Problems?”

Light dawns on Geno’s face. He grins at Sid, warm, then turns to Eric. “Sid _very_ good,” he says, like that’s an entire explanation.

Eric laughs. “Well, we all know _that._ ”

Sid forces a smile and slumps back in his chair. This meeting cannot be over soon enough.

***

The meeting does end pretty soon after that; they all have pre-game naps to get to. Sid gets it together to say a bunch of good things to Eric about Jordy before they go. He—well, he just feels like he owes him, is all.

He’s worried Geno will try to talk to him after the meeting breaks up. But Geno just goes into his hotel room, waving goodbye to Jordy and Sid, and Sid gets to retreat to his own room for the temporary respite of a nap.

Later that day, though. Geno could approach him at any time: before the game; after their loss to Carolina; in the airport on the way home. Sid is jumpy every time they’re within twenty feet of each other.

He keeps expecting it to happen. But it doesn’t. Sid makes it home, to the safe haven of Mario’s guest house, and Geno doesn’t try to talk to him at all.

Sid has a text from him when he wakes up the next morning, though.

Sid’s adrenaline spikes as soon as he sees the name on his phone. He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to open the text, but—it’ll only get harder the longer he waits. He flips the phone open.

The text is a picture. A picture of Geno’s hair, specifically: it’s sticking up and looking even more ridiculous than usual. It’s followed by another text that’s just a string of sad faces.

Sid stares at the texts. Is there a secret message hidden in them? He can’t think of one. But he also can’t believe that Geno would send him a silly picture of his hair as if nothing happened. As if Sid had never led Geno to that clearing and…

Sid snaps the phone shut. Then he opens it again, stares at the picture. It definitely _seems_ normal.

He gets up, takes a shower, brushes his teeth. Goes down to breakfast and sees that his car is in the driveway.

He doesn’t know when that happened. He looks at it for a minute, then opens his phone and looks at the text again. After a bit he types out a _lol._

They have practice later that day. Sid’s on edge on the drive in, tapping his hands against the steering wheel. Geno hasn’t responded to his text, which means—well, probably nothing. It didn’t call for a response. But it’s so weird that Geno hasn’t said anything else.

Geno isn’t there when Sid gets to the changing room. Just a few other guys, changing like normal. Sid says hi and goes to his stall and starts getting his gear out.

Geno gets there a few minutes later. Sid tenses as soon as he opens the door. Sid’s stall is between Geno’s and the door; Geno is going to have to pass him to get there. 

Geno does pass him. He even veers close as he does. He looks at Sid, but he doesn’t say anything—just gives him a smile and a tap on the shoulder.

The tap shivers all the way down to Sid’s toes. Sid stares at him, but Geno doesn’t do anything else. Just goes to his stall. Sid follows him with his eyes all the way there.

He keeps waiting. The other shoe has to drop at some point. But it keeps not dropping, all that day and the next. They play the Flyers the next day, and they snap their losing streak; Sid gets a goal and an assist. The assist is on Geno’s goal, and Sid is the first person Geno sweeps up in a bear hug after the puck goes in.

It feels so normal. It _is_ so normal. Sid presses close to Geno, Geno’s arms squeezing around him tight, and he thinks, okay. Maybe this is just…it. Maybe they’re going to go back to normal, and they never need to talk about it at all.

It doesn’t quite seem possible. Geno was there for the full moon; he knows what happened. But maybe he just…isn’t bothered by it?

It could be a Russian thing. Maybe they have different full-moon customs. Or maybe Geno assumes that Sid has different full-moon customs, and whatever he did was totally normal for a Canadian alpha. Maybe he’s giving him the benefit of the doubt.

It feels dishonest, to let Geno go on thinking that when it’s not true even a little. But what else is Sid going to do? Pull him aside and say—what?

Geno comes up to him after the game, when Sid’s done with the media. It’s the first time Geno’s approached him in days. Sid tenses, but not as much as he would have two days ago.

“Sid,” Geno says. His face is friendly, his scent warm. “Tomorrow?”

They have a day off tomorrow. “Tomorrow. You—want to do something?”

“Dinner?” Geno says. “You want?”

There are reasons Sid could say no to that. But there are also reasons to say yes. And—it’s just dinner, with a teammate. It shouldn’t be a big deal. “Sure,” Sid says.

Geno’s smile is dazzling. “Good,” he says. “Mine house, five?” He holds up five fingers.

Sid nods. Geno grins and taps him on the arm before turning to leave.

It’s the kind of touch all the guys give each other all the time. A nothing touch. But it’s on the softer end of the spectrum, and it makes Sid’s stomach flip over: a neat somersault, a single long lurch, stealing Sid’s breath as he watches Geno head toward the door.

***

The next day is the first of three without a game. Sid lets himself sleep in and lazes around for most of the morning and afternoon. It should be relaxing, but his adrenaline spikes every time he thinks about the evening.

Five o’clock arrives too quickly. Sid’s stomach is jumping like crazy when he pulls up to Gonch’s house. This is it—if Geno’s ever going to talk to him about the full moon, it’ll be tonight. When they don’t have to snatch a few minutes in a crowded locker room or public hotel hallway. This is exactly when Geno would bring it up.

Sid rings the doorbell, heart hammering. He knows, in the split second before the door opens, that it’s going to be Geno on the other side.

“Sid!” It is Geno, smiling and wearing an apron. “Come. We have fyuh-heat-toss.”

“What?” Sid says, confusion cutting through his worry. He looks down at the packet of tortillas in Geno’s hand. “Oh, fajitas.”

The kitchen is a sight: every surface is covered with the ingredients of fajitas in progress. Geno won’t let Sid help; he installs him at the kitchen island and goes around muttering at a Cyrillic printout in his hand.

Sid isn’t quite sure what to make of this. “So,” he says, clutching his beer. “Is Gonch around?”

“No, is date,” Geno says, and Sid panics wildly for about four seconds before Geno says, “Him Ksenia dinner. Very…” He kisses his hand sloppily and makes a face.

Sid laughs, even while his tension slides to a different pitch. Gonch and Ksenia being out means privacy. Which means Geno could bring things up that he wouldn’t want overheard.

“Food time,” Geno says, pulling the steak and onions and peppers off the stove.

Geno won’t let Sid put together his own fajita plate. “Pretty sure I can handle this part,” Sid say, amused, while Geno picks carefully over the bowls of cheese and avocado and cilantro.

Geno turns and fixes him with a look. “Sid sit,” he says, so Sid stays where he is and lets Geno prepare the plates.

He does a good job. “Geno, this looks amazing,” Sid says when there’s a plate in front of him.

Geno looks uncertain. “Amazing good?”

“Amazing is very good,” Sid says. “Better than good.”

“Ah.” Geno nods and slides silverware over to him. “Sid hockey amazing.”

Sid ducks his head helplessly. He busies himself with his food.

The meal feels normal. It’s the kind of meal they would have had a week ago, before any disastrous full-moon events. Just two teammates enjoying some food and attempting to talk to each other across a language barrier.

Sid gets nervous once the plates are cleared, Geno whisking his away before he can help. This is the moment, if anything is—this is when Geno will bring it up.

Geno leads them into the living room and puts on some classic Pens footage. That doesn’t mean they’re not going to talk, of course. But it’s hard for Sid to remember to feel nervous when there are Penguins hockey highlight on the TV. Geno’s gone with the golden age of the ’90s offensive core; Sid’s watched these games before with Mario, but he could watch them a hundred times.

He doesn’t even notice at first when Geno puts his arm up on the back of the couch. Sid’s leaning forward, going on about Mario’s footwork as he scores two goals in a row. Then he leans back and realizes Geno’s arm is there.

Sid freezes. There’s a stoppage of play on screen, and Geno fast forwards through it while Sid tries to get his mind started again. This…isn’t actually anything. Geno doesn’t have his arm _around_ Sid. It’s just along the back of the couch, behind Sid’s head, where Sid doesn’t have to touch it at all if he doesn’t want to.

But…if he wanted to. He could lean his head back a little, rest it against Geno’s upper arm. Feel the heat of it through his shirt.

The back of Sid’s head is buzzing. He makes himself take slow breaths.

They sit like that for another twenty minutes of footage. Sid’s quiet, his throat too tight to let him say anything. “Well, I should—I should go,” he manages to say finally.

He’s a little worried Geno will say no: that he’ll start the conversation Sid’s been dreading. But Geno just nods. “We more soon,” he says. And then—then he brushes his hand against Sid’s back, just for a moment.

Sid can still feel it tingling a few minutes later when he goes through the front door into the night.

***

They have practice the next day. Sid stays after to help Max with his shooting. He loves doing this kind of thing: the rhythmic sureness of working with Max, passing on knowledge and skills that Sid feels confident in. By the time he heads off the ice, he’s feeling surer in his skates than he has all week.

He heads home and makes good on his promise to have an air hockey tournament with the Lemieux kids. It’s long overdue: Sid’s second year on the team has been busier than his rookie year, and he hasn’t had as much time to just hang out with them lately.

They make sure he knows it, too. “That’s ’cause you haven’t been practicing,” Alexa says after Lauren wins her first game against him. “Daddy says you should always practice stuff so you don’t get bad at it.”

“Don’t be stupid, he’s busy practicing real hockey,” Lauren says.

“I know, I’m sorry, guys,” Sid says, stepping aside to let Austin take his place. “The team’s been really busy. I’d be over here more if I could.”

“Maybe you could invite some of your teammates to come play,” Stephanie says. “Like, you could invite Geno maybe.”

Sid trips over the edge of the carpet. “Wh-what?”

“Yeah! Pens tournament!” Austin says, slamming the puck towards Lauren’s end of the table.

“Steph doesn’t want a Pens tournament,” Lauren says, blocking the shot. “She just wants Geno to come back.”

“Shut up, I do not, it was just an idea,” Stephanie says.

“Geno’s real good, right?” Austin says to Sid. “He’s, like, the best one.”

“Nuh-uh, that’s Sid,” Alexa says.

“Okay, but Geno’s good too,” Austin says. “Right?”

“Yeah, that’s why Steph has a picture of him on her wall,” Lauren says.

“That’s of the _whole team_ ,” Stephanie says. She’s blushing red to the roots of her hair.

Sid clears his throat. Then clears it again when the first time doesn’t seem to take. “Uh, yeah, I mean, I can ask Geno if he wants to come over sometime.”

“Really?” Stephanie looks up with stars in her eleven-year-old eyes.

Sid’s pretty sure he’s never looked like that. He’s almost sure. “Yeah. I’m sure he’d love to see you all again.”

“Tell him we’ll kick his butt at air hockey,” Lauren says, sending the puck neatly into Austin’s goal.

***

“That’s a great idea,” Mario says when Sid blurts it out the next morning on the way to practice. “It seems like the two of you have been getting along really well. No problems there?”

“No, it seems good,” Sid says, swallowing down the metallic taste on his tongue. It _is_ good. Way better than it should be, given the way Sid’s been weird lately.

“Well, let me know if anything does arise,” Mario says. “We’re lucky to have your leadership in the room, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to go it alone.”

“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” Sid says.

Sid invites Geno that morning in the locker room. Geno’s face lights up. “Tonight,” he says. “Today night?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sid says.

“I’m yes. I’m come,” Geno says, and gives Sid his broad smile.

Geno comes over that night with a bottle of wine and Gonch and Ksenia in tow. There’s a full house for the air hockey tournament. Geno kicks everyone’s asses until the last round, when Lauren finally beats him.

He steps back from the table and shakes his head sorrowfully while Lauren jumps up and high-fives the other kids. “Lauren more better,” Geno says.

“No, I’m the _best,_ ” Lauren says, double double high-fives with Austin.

“Lauren best,” Geno corrects himself, meeting Sid’s eyes.

Sid shakes his head knowingly. He saw Geno set up that last goal. Geno grins wider, unrepentant.

Dinners like these are what’s kept Sid living in Mario’s guest house for so long. He likes a lot about living alone—his own space, his own habits—but this is what a meal should be: a bunch of people, kids and adults both, piled around a table on a weekday evening, reaching across each other to get at the food and all talking top-volume. Sid didn’t know he wanted anything like this until he moved in with the Lemieuxs.

Geno obviously can’t quite follow the conversation at this speed and volume, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He makes use of Ksenia’s translating ability to tell a fascinated Stephanie all about living in Russia, and then he and Mario get into a debate about the differences between RSL and NHL hockey. “The NHL is better, though, right?” Sid says loudly when they’ve just wrapped up a back-and-forth about ice size.

Geno catches Sid’s eye. Sid makes his gaze as bland as he can. “No,” Geno says after a moment, mouth quirking. “NHL best.”

Ksenia and Gonch go home right after dinner. “Sorry, guys, promised we’d have an early night,” Gonch says.

Geno hangs back when they’re leaving. “Geno, you’re welcome to stay,” Mario says. “We can give you a ride home.”

Geno nods. “I’m stay,” he says.

Sid tries not to be too pleased as Geno comes into the video room with them. They’re just gonna watch a movie with the kids. The Lemieuxs have a tiered viewing room, one couch behind the other, and Sid and Geno, as the two tallest, end up on the back couch with Austin while the girls take the couch in front.

The movie is _The Incredibles._ They put on the Russian subtitles, and they must be different from the English dialogue somehow, because Geno keeps laughing at the weirdest moments. It’s funny, seeing him burst out laughing for no reason, so Sid starts laughing, too, and soon the girls are turning around and glaring at them to be quiet.

They make an effort. Sid bites down on his lips and watches the movie. He’s still aware of Geno next to him, but they keep it to the occasional stray giggle.

Geno nudges him when Edna starts showing Elastigirl the families’ new outfits. “What, you want a superhero costume?” Sid says. He can see it. Maybe for next Halloween.

Geno shakes his head and gestures to the other end of the couch. Austin’s fallen asleep, his head hanging fully off the couch. Sid snorts a quiet laugh.

A minute later, Geno’s hand comes to rest on the back of Sid’s neck.

Sid twitches in surprise. He almost pulls away, but—it feels kind of nice, having Geno’s hand there. Warm. Heavy, but in a way that Sid doesn’t mind.

It’s really nice, actually. Sid sits there, sinking deeper into the feeling, his breath picking up. Geno’s hand feels like—warm waves, lapping against him on all sides. A slow drip of pleasure. Like there’s something stroking him, all over his body, coaxing his muscles to relax.

His eyes fall shut. His mouth falls open, breath coming in gulps. Sid should probably do something about those two things, but…he doesn’t want to. This is too good. He just wants to stay like this: Geno’s hand cupping his neck, deep contentment wrapping itself around him, layer by layer, until he feel totally safe and warm and _held._

Sid has no idea how much time passes. It could be days for all he cares. The next thing he’s aware of is the lights coming on in the room. Someone’s speaking: Mario. “Aw, look, they’re totally out.”

Sid blinks his eyes open. He doesn’t remember having closed them. He should probably care about that, but the world is still covered in a haze. Geno’s hand is still there, heavy and warm on the back of his neck.

Geno tightens his grip. Yes, that’s good. It sends a wave of sensation down Sid’s spine, something new and full of sparks. He wonders if Geno will do it again. But instead Geno brushes his fingers against the nape of Sid’s neck and takes his hand away.

The world rushes back, bright and clear and cold. Sid sucks in a startled breath. It feels like getting out of bed on a winter morning: the sudden harsh chill. The room feels more crowded than it did a moment before; full of scents—Austin, Mario, the girls. Could he not smell them before?

Geno is still sitting next to him. He smells like freshly shucked corn, like campfires, like a bed of warm blankets.

“You guys enjoy the kids’ choice of movie?” Mario asks.

Geno’s looking at Sid. Sid needs to say something. He takes three breaths before he manages to find a response, scraping the words up from the bottom of a deep dark well. “Um. Yeah. It was. It was great.”

“Yeah, that was what I thought too, the first twelve times we watched it,” Mario says dryly. “You boys want to give me a hand?”

He’s lifting Austin over his shoulder. It takes Sid a moment to realize that Mario wants them to get the other kids. He stands up and has to take a minute with his hand on the back of the couch for his balance to return. It doesn’t, quite, but he weaves his way over to the other couch where the three girls are sleeping.

Three girls, two of him and Geno. Sid wants to tell Geno not to worry about Lauren, that she’ll want to make her own way to bed, but words are so hard right now. They’re all buried fifty feet under the earth, and Sid just…can’t.

Fortunately, Lauren wakes up when he bends down to get Alexa and grumbles about how she can walk by herself. Sid hoists Stephanie, her long legs dangling, and Geno grabs Alexa, and they follow Mario up to the kids’ bedrooms.

Stephanie barely grumbles as Sid tucks her into bed. He goes back out into the hall, free of his burden, and there’s Geno: a few doors down, coming out of Alexa’s room.

He comes closer, and Sid sways toward him. He can feel Geno’s eyes on him, his attention, his breath. Can almost feel his hands on him again. Geno lifts a hand and puts it to Sid’s face.

A door shuts down the hall. Sid jumps, and Geno’s hand falls. “I’m getting too old to do that anymore,” Mario says. He comes towards them, rubbing his lower back. The fog in Sid’s head turns to confusion, blowing through him. “Geno, can I give you a ride home?”

Sid doesn’t remember getting into bed that night. He sleeps deeply, better than he has in days. In his dreams, he’s a wolf: running across the fields, wild and free. Running until he can’t run anymore, then finding a burrow and curling up in it, utterly warm and safe and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a [Staal brothers group chat](https://linskywords.tumblr.com/post/630899478227009536/your-updates-are-as-always-amazing-but-i-do) on Tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

Sid feels good the next morning when he wakes up, well-rested, the warm feeling from the dream staying with him. It lives in the top of his belly, right under the rib cage. A glow that lingers while he goes through his morning routine.

They’re flying to Buffalo today for a game tonight. Sid gets over to Mario’s earlier than he needs to, and Mario chirps him a little about being eager to play tonight and start a winning streak. Sid doesn’t argue; Mario’s not even wrong. Sid is really looking forward to this trip.

His eyes go to Geno as soon as he reaches the players’ lounge at the airport. Geno looks—well, he looks like he always does. It’s just nice to see him, is all. He meets Sid’s eyes, and his own lighten with a smile. Sid smiles back and goes to sit next to him.

It’s so comfortable, interacting with Geno like this. This whole thing—having another alpha on the team—it could have gone so much worse. It could have meant unending awkwardness; there could have been tension every time they were in a room together. Instead, despite all the weirdness Sid’s thrown into the mix, they have this easy friendship that’s actually making Sid’s experience on the team better. He can’t imagine a whole lot more enjoyable than sitting here on a game day morning next to Geno.

Well. He flashes back to last night, to the feeling of Geno’s hand tucked around the back of his neck. Geno would never do that here, though. That’s an okay way to sit while you’re watching a movie with a buddy on a couch; it would be weird in the open, in the morning, among the whole team. Even if it would feel good. Even if Sid can almost feel the ghost of Geno’s fingers against his skin.

“Sid?” Geno says, startling Sid out of his thoughts. He’s looking at Sid with—is that concern? Sid doesn’t want him to be concerned.

Geno presses his hand against the outside of Sid’s thigh. Sid’s heart stutters—but then he realizes what Geno’s showing him. Sid is…shaking.

Not a lot. Almost not enough to notice. But now that Geno’s pointed it out, it’s unmistakable: his whole body is very slightly quivering, fine tremors running down his limbs.

“Sorry,” Sid says. “That’s…really weird.” He has no idea what could be causing it. He takes in a few slow breaths, drops his shoulders, tries to relax, but it doesn’t change.

Geno looks at him for a moment with considering eyes. Then he bends over and digs in his bag. “For Sid,” he says, pulling out a sweatshirt.

It’s a blue sweatshirt with Cyrillic lettering in red. Sid knows just enough to make out the word _Mettalurg_ on the front: Geno’s old team. Mostly, though, what he notices is that the sweatshirt smells like Geno. A lot like him, like Geno hasn’t washed it since last wearing it.

“Oh,” Sid says. He should really say no. If nothing else, he can’t wear the sweatshirt right now; they’re in their game day suits, about to board the plane. But he doesn’t want to say no. He wants to take it, hold onto it until he can put it on. “Thanks,” he says.

“You welcome,” Geno says, and—it’s not that he’s not smiling, because he is. It’s that there’s something else in his face that’s stronger than the smile. Sid looks away, down at the sweatshirt in his arms.

They board the plane soon. Sid sits in his usual seat on the aisle next to Flower. He feels obvious when he puts the sweatshirt on—Geno’s only one row up; he can see him—but Geno wouldn’t have given him the sweatshirt if he didn’t want him to wear it, right?

The sweatshirt is warm and soft and smells even more like Geno than Sid thought. He pulls the hood up, snug around his face and neck, and breathes deep all the way to Buffalo.

***

They lose the game that night, but it’s not because of Sid. The Penguins have two goals, and both of them are his.

He does press afterward, of course. Geno’s eyes are on him the whole time he’s talking to reporters. It makes Sid feel charged up, like he’s breathing ionized air. He has to remind himself to calm down, not to sound too high-energy when he’s talking about a loss.

Geno comes up to him when he’s done, before he can head to the showers. Sid’s expecting that, but he’s not expecting the look in Geno’s eyes: hot, intent, like Geno has a goal and he’s going to achieve it. “Good,” Geno says, a low rumble of a sound.

It skitters down Sid’s spine and sets off firecrackers in his stomach. “Thanks,” Sid says. “You, too.” Geno didn’t end up on the score sheet, but he had four shots on goal, and it was only Biron’s impossible saves that kept some of them from being goals.

“We’re hang out?” Geno asks.

“What, now?” Sid says stupidly.

Geno wrinkles his nose. “No now,” he says. “Pittsburgh.”

Right. Obviously. They’re about to board a bus to the airport; they can’t hang out now. “Yeah,” Sid says. “You can come to my house. Tomorrow—or, wait, there’s another game tomorrow. The day after tomorrow?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Geno agrees, smiling at him. Sid floats off to shower and change.

They play the Rangers at home the next day. There’s no score for most of the first period, both teams having good looks but neither getting into the net. The first goal for either team comes when the period’s almost over, when Jordy scores on the power play.

Sid has just left the ice when he hears the goal horn. He turns around to watch the goal on the JumboTron: a beautiful pass, the puck flying from Geno’s stick to Jordy’s and then into the goal like it was magnetized. It’s great timing to give them the momentum heading into the first intermission. And it fills Sid with rage.

It’s such a weird reaction. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Sometimes this happens during hockey games: you’re pushing your body crazy hard, and physical sensations get confused with emotions and your head goes to strange places. Sid is used to that. He can’t remember ever reacting quite like this to a goal from his own team—but he doesn’t have a lot of time to think about it. They have a goal to celebrate and another three minutes of play to get through before the break.

Besides, he thinks as he leans out to slap hands with the guys on the ice, it doesn’t matter. He and Geno are going to hang out tomorrow. And if _that_ doesn’t make sense as a thought—well, he has a game to concentrate on. He moves right past it.

They win 3-1, and they have late practice the next morning. Sid wakes up with a funny feeling in his belly. It’s not like the nerves he had earlier in the season, when he knew he’d be hanging out with Geno and had vague anxiety about it. This is more like…excitement. Sid’s looking forward to the afternoon. Which just makes sense: he and Geno are friends, they’re going to hang out. What’s not to look forward to?

Geno comes back with him after practice, and Sid heats up something from his meal service. It’s so easy, the two of them hanging out in his kitchen. Geno sits on the counter and reads out the ingredients, intentionally mispronouncing them while Sid tries not to laugh too embarrassingly. He gets self-conscious about his laugh sometimes—he knows it can be kind of honky—but when he slips up and lets out a few honks now, Geno just looks up with his eye-crinkly smile, like he doesn’t mind at all.

After lunch they play some NHL 07 and bicker over player selection. Sid loses the fight for Jágr, but he gets Ovechkin, mostly because Geno refuses to acknowledge he’s even an option.

“Better Joe Thornton,” Geno says, when Sid’s played Ovi against him and failed to score.

“But Ovechkin’s _Russian,_ ” Sid says. “Aren’t Russians the best?”

“I best Russian,” Geno says.

“Fine, next year I’ll play only with you,” Sid says, and Geno flashes him a smile that makes Sid lose the next faceoff.

Geno ekes out a win, probably because Sid keeps prioritizing getting under Geno’s skin over optimal player selection. They could play another game, but Sid doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want the afternoon to end, either, and he’s trying to come up with what to say to make Geno stay when Geno nods over at his bookcase. “You family?”

He’s looking at the picture frame on the second shelf. “Oh. Yeah,” Sid says, reaching over to pick it up. It’s a picture of him with his parents and sister, taken last year. “That’s my mom, my dad, and my sister Taylor.”

Geno brushes a thumb over Taylor’s picture. “Little.”

“Yeah, she’s nine years younger,” Sid says. “I was really happy when she was born. Nice to have a bigger pack.”

That’s probably too much for Geno to follow. He nods like he does, though, and gestures to Sid’s mom and dad. “Alpha?”

“Oh. No,” Sid says. “We’re—not a formal pack.”

Geno looks at him, brow wrinkling. “Hard?”

“Not really,” Sid says honestly. It’s super common: most nuclear families don’t happen to have an alpha parent. Traditionally that means they’d be part of a broader extended-family pack, but most families don’t formalize that these days. Not in Canada, anyway. Sid’s kind of glad about it: if they were a more formal pack, it would mean a more formal split from them whenever he starts a pack of his own, and he wouldn’t want that.

He rubs a thumb against the picture frame. It’s been a while since he’s seen them. He hopes they can make it down for a game soon.

“How about you?” he asks Geno. “What’s your pack like?”

“Grandfather,” Geno says, and then makes a bitey face. Sid laughs. He’s known alphas like that: old-school matriarchs or patriarchs who’ve been keeping a large clan in line for years. “Parents, brother,” Geno says, face softening. “Like—” He draws a larger circle and then a smaller one inside of it. “Pack, pack.”

“A pack within a pack,” Sid says. “You must miss them.”

Geno nods. His scent changes a little—darkens. Sid is starting to pick up on more of the subtleties of Geno’s scent. This is like a shadow falling on sun-warmed earth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to touch Geno’s arm.

Geno covers Sid’s hand with his own. His skin is warm, both above Sid’s hand and below it. Sid breathes in deep. The sun is coming back, turning the earth green and golden.

He finds himself breathing faster. He bites down on his lip. “I should, um,” he says, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull his hand away.

Geno’s eyes are heavy on him. Sid waits for him to break the spell—but instead Geno lifts his other hand to cup Sid’s face, fingertips impossibly soft against the side of Sid’s cheek. He brushes his thumb across Sid’s cheekbone. “Sid,” Geno says, his voice rumbling low. Sid’s eyes flutter shut.

The next moment, Geno’s mouth is on his, hot and gentle and the sweetest thing Sid’s ever tasted.

Sid melts into it. Geno’s hands come up to cradle his head, and Sid slips back, slow, easy, coming to rest against the pillow. Geno’s body above him like a wave.

Sid hasn’t kissed anyone in ages. He hasn’t even _thought_ about kissing anyone in ages. This is…this feels…

Geno makes a low murmuring sound as he licks deep into Sid’s mouth. Sid feels the heat of it burst deep in his belly. He’s floating warm in a sea of Geno.

He’s not ready when Geno pulls his mouth away. Hasn’t had enough. But then Geno lowers his mouth to Sid’s neck and _oh._

Oh _yes_. This is—Sid can’t even handle this. Geno’s lips gliding down his neck are like sparks, like lightning; his tongue touches the skin, and Sid lets out a wordless cry. Geno responds by opening his mouth and grazing the skin with his teeth.

Sid throws his head back and keens. He wants—wants to feel it, Geno’s teeth, biting deep—

Geno nips at the skin, a shallow tease. Sid’s hips jerk up against nothing. Geno holds him down, strong pressure that makes Sid moan and squirm. He’s straining for more, desperate for it, but it’s okay because Geno’s got him. Geno will make sure he gets what he needs. His alpha will—

Wait. That’s wrong, isn’t it?

Geno’s tongue traces a line of heat on Sid’s neck that quivers down to his belly. Sid is gasping, head spinning. But something is wrong.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait.”

Geno lifts off his neck and makes an inquiring noise. His mouth is red and wet and Sid’s cock jerks with wanting it. But—

“No,” he forces out. “No, stop.”

He feels like he’s moving through molasses when he pushes Geno away. Geno lets him, though, falls back so that Sid can get up. Sid scrambles off the couch, panic spiking his chest, and wraps his arms around himself. 

He can feel himself shaking. He doesn’t know what—he doesn’t know what that was, or why he—

“Sid,” Geno says. He reaches out a hand, an offer of help. Sid’s shoulders tighten. If he took that hand—Geno would pull him back down, would wrap him up again. He wouldn’t be standing here, shivering with cold. But it would be wrong. Sid is—Sid _can’t._ He turns his face away.

Geno lets his hand drop. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, Sid.” He gets off the couch, moving slowly, cautiously. No sudden movements. He goes toward the foyer, and a minute later, Sid hears the front door shut.

He sinks down onto the couch. Pulls his knees against his chest. Lets himself shake.

***

Sid’s not sure how long he sits like that, not registering anything. Then the doorbell rings, and he’s off the couch like a shot.

He stands in the middle of the living room, quivering. Then he moves so that he can see through a window, and oh. Okay. It’s only Flower.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” Flower asks when Sid opens the door. “Geno told me I should come over. Said you were sick or something.”

Sid opens his mouth to respond. Has to take a minute to dredge words up. “Uh, yeah, I just—I don’t know. I think I ate something weird, maybe?”

“You do look a little pale.” Flower puts a hand on his arm. Sid flinches a little but manages not to pull away. “Want me to call the trainers?”

The last thing Sid needs is someone looking at him and asking questions. “If I’m still like this tomorrow. But I’m okay. I’m just—I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Flower says skeptically.

Flower puts him on the couch with a blanket and some Gatorade. Then he flops down next to him and turns on the TV. Some show about fishing, or something outdoors—Sid can’t really focus on the screen.

What he really wants is for Flower to touch him again. But as soon as he has that thought, his stomach turns. He can’t imagine it—Flower’s hands, on his skin, so weird, so wrong—

It’s not a big deal. Sid doesn’t need anyone to touch him. Probably better if no one does, actually, and he can let his body settle itself.

He slumps gradually farther and farther sideways, though, as the sun creeps across the floor. Can’t quite resist. Finally he tilts far enough that his head brushes Flower’s shoulder. Flower moves—lifts his arm—and Sid almost jerks back toward the other end of the couch. But before he can, Flower puts his arm around Sid’s shoulders and pulls him in.

It does feel wrong, a little bit. Flower’s touch sends little shivers across Sid’s skin, and not the good kind. But it’s not as bad as he would have thought. It makes the knot in his belly loosen, just a little bit. Slowly, he lets himself relax against Flower’s shoulder.

***

They’re flying to Philly the next morning. Normally Sid would ride to the airport with Mario. But he texts him to tell him to go on without him and rolls into the airport about three minutes before their hard departure time.

Rex hits him on the arm when he comes in. “Where the fuck were you? We were about to start looking in ditches.”

“What? I’m on time,” Sid says.

“Yeah, but for you, that’s like three hours late,” Rex says.

He’s just chirping, not really concerned. Sid manages a weak grin and goes on by.

He’s not as lucky with Flower, of course. Sid sits down next to him, and Flower looks instantly alarmed. “Okay, you’re going to see the trainers.”

“I’m fine,” Sid says. “Way better than yesterday.”

“Your face is all…” Flower waves a hand. “Did you even sleep after I left?”

“Of course,” Sid says. If by “sleep” Flower means lying in a dark room with his eyes closed. Sid definitely did that.

He keeps his eyes down, tracing the seam of his pants with his finger. Geno is on the far side of the room.

They fly to Philly. Sid does all the things he’s done on so many game days over the last season-plus: skates with the team, takes the bus to the hotel, lies down for a nap. Gets up again a couple of hours later and gets ready for a game. All things he can do without thinking.

He even scores a goal in the game that night. It happens early in the second period, when Geno’s on the ice; Geno gets the puck to Whits who gets it to Sid, and Sid’s body knows what to do. The goal horn is loud in his ears along with the boos of the Philly crowd.

He’s not sure if Geno tries to get close to him in the celly. He doesn’t succeed, anyway. Sid claps Whits and Gonch on the shoulder and skates blindly past them to the bench.

The Pens win the game. Sid goes through his media duty on autopilot, parroting things he’s said dozens of times before about how good it feels when the team plays well, and then he slinks off toward the showers and lets the hot water pound down on him. Closes his eyes. Doesn’t think. Only a few hours, and they’ll be home.

He wraps a towel around his waist, steps out of the showers, and comes face to face with Geno.

They both freeze. Geno’s eyes go wide. Sid’s body prickles, all the spots where the shower water hasn’t quite evaporated. He can’t move. Can’t even breathe.

Geno darts his eyes to either side, like he’s checking for an audience. “Sid good?” he asks softly.

Sid…has to answer. He opens his mouth to draw breath. It’s a mistake: Geno’s scent hits him, rolling through his body like a wave of weakness. He sways where he stands.

“Sid,” Geno says, concern in his voice, stepping forward.

Sid steps back. But he moves too fast, his head still spinning with Geno’s scent, and stumbles against the wall. Geno’s hands come up: not quite touching him but hovering like they might. Sid wants—he wants those hands on him, wants that mouth on him, wants Geno to step closer and press him against the wall and—

“Oh,” says a new voice, and Sid spins around to see Jordy staring at them.

Jordy’s mouth is open, his eyes moving between them. He looks transfixed with horror. “S-sorry,” he stutters, and turns and runs back to the changing room.

“Fuck,” Sid mutters and hurries after him.

Jordy isn’t in the changing room. Sid is only in a towel, he should stop and change, but then Jordy will—he throws the towel on a bench and yanks on a pair of sweats and goes out in pursuit.

He finds Jordy in the visiting player’s lounge, sitting on the couch. He’s the only one in there. Sid sits down across from him.

Now that he’s here, he’s not sure what to say. Only that he has to say something. “So, uh,” he says, voice tight in his ears. “What you saw—”

“It’s none of my business,” Jordy says quickly. His hands are pressed between his knees. “What you and Geno get up to together—”

“We’re not,” Sid says. “Together, I mean. There’s nothing happening.”

Jordy gives him a skeptical look. Sid feels himself flush.

“I—know it has to be confusing,” Sid says. It sure is for him, anyway. “I just want to make sure you know there’s nothing to worry about. Whatever weird stuff is happening, we’re not gonna let it affect the team. Or you.”

He hopes that’s true. It has to be true. Sid won’t let it be otherwise.

Jordy’s giving him kind of a weird look. “You know you don’t have to protect me from shit, right?” he says. “I mean, I know what you promised Eric, and I appreciate it. I just…feel like sometimes you see the rest of us as your responsibility and forget that we could also be your friends.”

Sid blinks at him. “Of course you’re my friends.”

“Yeah?” Jordy gives him a challenging look. “So what’s going on between you and Geno?”

Sid ducks his head. “It’s…complicated.”

“Because you’re both alphas,” Jordy says.

Sid’s stomach jerks. “It’s not—it can’t be anything.”

“Sure seemed like something to me,” Jordy says.

“What did it seem like?” Sid asks, before he can think better of it.

“It seemed like you were about two seconds from going to your knees for him,” Jordy says.

Sid sucks in a breath. If he wasn’t red before, he is now. He can still feel, in his body, what it was like to have Geno standing in front of him, the way he wanted to—

He shuts that line of thinking down. It’s not going to help anything. “You don’t have to worry about it,” he says firmly. “It’s not going to be anything.”

“Because you don’t want it to be?”

Doesn’t matter. “Because it can’t be.”

Jordy makes a face. “Shit. I’m sorry, man.”

Sid’s adrenaline spikes. “What? For what?”

“Just, that must suck, is all.” Jordy shrugs. “Feeling whatever, and not being able to do anything about it. Must really suck.”

Sid hadn’t really thought about it like before. He’s been thinking that he’s wrong to feel what he does. But he hasn’t been thinking of it as misfortune, the unlucky-in-love kind. He’s not sure that makes it any better. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, it really does.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sid is better prepared the next day when he sees Geno at practice. He makes sure he’s standing near his stall so that he can lean against it when Geno comes in. He stays across the room and breathes through his mouth so that he won’t be overwhelmed by Geno’s scent. He keeps his mind on the upcoming practice.

It’s going to be an important one for focus. They won last night, but they also had two penalties for two many men on the ice in the same period. That means bench drills, and Sid knows how easy it is for the guys to get resentful during the kind of thing, being herded around like kids who can’t manage themselves. Sid needs to be on his game to keep things positive.

He turns away from his stall, ready to head to the ice, and his eyes land on Geno’s naked chest.

Sid sucks in a breath of air. He’s seen Geno shirtless so many times; seen everyone on the team that way. But this time, out of nowhere, his whole body is flooding with heat. Geno’s bare skin, the smooth muscles of his arms—the dusting of hair over his pecs—

Sid turns back toward his stall. Closes his eyes. Breathes slowly, carefully. Feels his cock press against his cup.

He can’t do this here. He’s in a locker room full of people. Jordy—Jordy is only a few stalls away. He’s going to be able to smell everything.

Geno can probably smell everything.

Sid bites his lip against the noise that wants to escape him at that thought. He needs to think about—about practice, bench drills, getting onto the ice, not about Geno leaning over him and holding him down—

He’s not sure how he gets through the room and onto the ice. It’s better out here: more space, cold air to calm him down. But he still feels like his head is in the fog.

This doesn’t happen to him. He doesn’t just get turned on by people in his vicinity. He can tell if someone’s attractive, obviously, and sometimes he’ll feel something—but nothing like this. It feels like his body’s been taken over by someone else.

They do the predicted bench drills halfway through practice. They combine it with shooting drills, so it’s not as bad as it could be, and there’s not too much grumbling. Sid tries to watch the team as a whole—but every time Geno’s on the ice, Sid can’t stop his eyes from going towards him.

He’s so strong on the ice. So solid. So in command of the puck, the situation, his own body. Sid keeps getting waves of prickles, from the top of his head down through his knees.

“So that was better, right?” Max asks when Geno’s just scored on Flower and is skating away from the goal.

Sid shakes himself, startled from his reverie. “Hm?”

“My shift change,” Max says. “Was that better?”

Sid hasn’t been watching Max at all. Hasn’t been watching anyone else. “Are you worried about it?” he asks cautiously.

“I mean.” Max shrugs. “I probably should be, right?”

Sid has no idea. He doesn’t even know if Max was on the ice for one of the too-many-men penalties last night. He thinks maybe, for the second one at least. “Did one of the coaches say something to you?”

“You were there,” Max mumbles.

Therry chewed them out pretty good in the second intermission. That was the whole team, though. Max looks like he’s worried he’s personally about to be bumped down to Wilkes-Barre.

Overreaction, or genuine concern; could be either one. It’s one of the things Sid should know: he tries to keep an eye on the newer guys, help them out with the holes in their game. He’s already done that a little bit with Max this year. But he feels like they’ve barely been on the same ice these past few weeks.

Gotta bluff it. Make the best play he can. “You shouldn’t take too much onto your—” Sid started to say, and then he stops because Geno skates by the bench.

Not that close to the bench. Not trying to make contact with Sid. But the scent of his sweat hits Sid’s nose, and suddenly Sid can’t remember anything he was going to say. Can’t do anything but ride the wave of feeling and try not to—

“I shouldn’t what?” Max asks.

“Huh?” Sid says.

“I thought you were—never mind,” Max says, turning away.

“No, wait,” Sid says, but Max gets tapped to go over the boards, and Sid grinds his teeth in self-recrimination. This is the stuff he’s supposed to be good at. Why he’s wearing the A. And he’s falling the fuck down on the job, because all he can think about is what it would taste like to lick that sweat off Geno’s neck.

He fights that thought all the rest of the way through practice. Does manage to babble out something he hopes is encouraging to Max near the end of it. Can’t get rid of his awareness of Geno, hovering just out of earshot. He always seems to be just out of reach, a little too far to engage with, and Sid wishes he would just—well. Sid wishes a lot of things.

By the time he gets into the shower after practice, he’s just about ready to bite through the soap in frustration. He manages not to touch himself in the fucking team showers—thinks maybe he even manages to hide his condition from his teammates—but by the time he’s dry and dressed, his hands are shaking, and he fucking _aches._

All he wants to do is go home and take care of himself. But he has meetings that afternoon, so he stays and does an arm workout, and then struggles to pay attention to endless conversations about team pay schedules and bonuses and the salary cap with his dick pressing against the fly of his jeans.

He’s not actually hard the whole time. That would be a whole new realm of torture. But every few minutes, he’ll think about Geno charging around the ice, the way he handled the puck, the way he _smelled,_ and fresh blood will rush to his dick.

He gets himself a little more under control on the drive home. But then, when he’s pulling onto his street, he thinks that maybe Geno did the same thing—maybe Geno went home from practice and took care of himself, too—and by the time he gets into his driveway, he’s gasping for breath and barely able to fumble his keys out of the ignition.

He gets into the house, locks the door behind him, and then falls back against it, his hand on his cock. He practically sobs, it feels so good. He could just jerk it a couple of times, come right here and now—but he’s standing fully clothed in the middle of his foyer. He’s not _that_ much of a teenager. He stumbles toward the stairs to his bedroom.

His cock practically leaps into his hand once he’s stripped and on his bed, the skin hot and the head already leaking precome. Sid swirls it around his cock and groans. He doesn’t even need to reach for the lube in his bedside drawer. He’s so wet already, and so close.

He strokes his fist all the way up his cock, base to tip, and shivers all over at the feeling. This is going to be _so_ good.

Sid jerks off a few times a week, usually. He has a well-worn repertoire of fantasies: a hand on his cock, a mouth, someone warm and wet to sink into. But it’s hard to hold onto them right now. He reaches for a memory instead: the second girl he fucked, the one who came while he was fucking her. He tries to imagine he’s fucking into her now, feeling her clenching around him, but the vision keeps changing. She rolls him over, and her body gets bigger and more solid. A flat male chest instead of boobs, the chest he saw this morning, Geno’s face looking down at him—

Sid knows he shouldn’t. But he’s so close. He’s been on the edge for so long. He fucks his hand and lets the fantasy take hold: Geno above him, the heat and breadth of him, jacking Sid’s cock while he murmurs soft private things in his ear. Things that make Sid shudder: how much Geno likes looking at him. How good Sid is being for him. How Geno’s going to hold him down and give him exactly what he needs, right now, and over and over again, whenever he needs it. How Geno is hard for him, his cock rubbing against Sid’s hip—

Geno’s cock. Huge and rigid and swollen for him. Geno leans him back against the pillows, looms between Sid’s knees, cock just where Sid wants it. Pushes—pushes into him—

Sid cries out, and his hand automatically goes to the base of his cock, where his knot is starting to swell.

That—hasn’t happened in a while. Not in years, maybe. Sid can coax his knot out when he wants it, and he used to do it regularly for practice—his parents gave him a booklet when he was younger called _Your alpha anatomy and you,_ and it taught him how to call his knot out and practice controlling it so that it wouldn’t pop when he didn’t want it to. Fourteen-year-old Sid spent a lot of time in bed with his hand around his knot.

He hasn’t needed to practice in a long time, though. Suppressing his knot is second nature now; he didn’t even have to think about it, the times he had sex with those girls. And jerking off with a knot is messier and takes way longer than a regular jerk-off session. Sid usually has other things taking up his time these days.

This time, though. His knot is already popping when he gets his hand on it, almost too far along to suppress. He could probably still manage it—but then he touches it, and fireworks go off in his head and his belly, and he can only moan and squeeze down on it. 

He wraps his left hand tight around his knot while he jerks the rest of his shaft with his right. It makes sensation flash hot and almost unbearable through his body—his knees, his shoulders, the pit of his stomach. He’s thrashing with it, open-mouthed, imagining Geno looking at him like this. Imagining Geno fucking him like this. Imagining—oh, fuck—Geno’s knot swelling, _inside_ of him, huge and filling him up and staking a claim—

Sid comes like an exploding freight train, his knot in a vice grip and his hips shoving up and the vivid-as-hellfire image of Geno’s knot swelling in his ass. Geno would be coming with him, his come shooting deep. Filling Sid up in a different way, making him sloppy and wet. Sid’s cock gives an extra jerk, and come streaks all the way up his chest.

It stays there, cooling, as Sid falls back against the pillows, limp. He just…he just…

His knot is still hard in his hand. Sid runs his hand over it absently. He just popped a knot for the first time in years. Without even intending to. Because he was thinking about—

He turns onto his side, stomach roiling. His knot will be hard for another twenty minutes or so. He doesn’t want to keep touching it, doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but he knows from experience that it takes way longer to go down if he doesn’t put pressure on it. So he keeps rolling his hand over it.

It sends a wave of pleasure through him that makes him clench his jaw. It makes him want to think about—but he’s not going to. He’s come already. There’s no excuse for it. He keeps squeezing his knot, keeps feeling the heat in his belly, and tries desperately not to think.

***

Sid takes a long shower that night and another in the morning. He’s still paranoid Geno will be able to smell it on him when he goes in to morning skate the next day.

It’s a stupid thing to worry about. Even if Geno can smell that Sid jerked off, he won’t know what Sid was thinking about while he did it. But Sid’s face still gets hot when Geno comes into the room, while Sid’s bent over tying his skate laces.

Geno hasn’t come within five feet of him off-ice since the incident in Philly the other day. Sid appreciates it, but also—well, it pretty much sucks, is all. Sid was one of the few people on the team Geno was really close with, and now Geno can’t even talk to him. Because Sid can’t just be normal.

Someday. Sid will get over this, will get his head clear again. Then he and Geno will be able to be friends like before. He just needs to give himself time to push through it.

They play Boston that night and lose in a shootout. Sid goes out with Flower and Véro afterward anyway, because, as Flower says, he seems like he could use some fun.

It’s not the most fun in the world, sitting in a bar replaying your failure to get a puck past Finley. Flower is maybe even worse, despite his wanting to go out. He didn’t even play badly tonight; but no goalie is ever going to believe that after a loss.

“Well, aren’t you two a treat,” Véro says when they’ve just spent a whole minute not talking.

“Hey, you knew this about me before we started dating,” Flower says to her. “You did this to yourself.”

“And I have no regrets,” Véro says, kissing him on the cheek.

They’re such a good couple. Sid loves that about them: how easily they show each other affection, the way both their faces light up when they’re together. How clear it is that they brighten each other’s lives.

Véro leans forward. “So, how about you?” she asks Sid.

“Hm?”

“Anyone you’ve got your eye on?”

Sid twitches guiltily. Geno was in his line of sight while he talked to the media tonight, and Sid thought about—but he didn’t go over. Obviously not. And by the time he got out of the shower, Geno was gone.

Nothing wrong with that. Good, even—Sid needs all the space he can get. But his mind keeps returning to it, almost as much as to the shootout loss.

Véro is looking at him, waiting for an answer. “Uh. Not so much,” Sid says.

“We can set you up with someone if you want,” Véro says. “What do you think? We know anyone good enough for Sid?” She elbows Flower.

He rolls his eyes lazily. “Leave me out of this.”

“I promise to vet carefully,” Véro says to Sid. “No superfans.”

Sid forces a grin. It’s a nice thing she’s doing. Well-intentioned. If it’s hard for him to even think about going out with someone right now, that’s on him, not her.

He could just…tell them. It wouldn’t be like telling Jordy, or someone like Mario—he doesn’t have to worry about Véro and Flower like he does Jordy, and Véro and Flower don’t have to worry about him. He could just tell them everything. Let it all out.

It’s so tempting. But he can’t, of course. There’s no way to tell the story honestly without bringing in the wolf thing. And he can’t make that choice for Geno.

He swallows down the words he would have said. “Thanks,” he says instead, avoiding Flower’s eyes on him. “It’s just—really busy with the team right now.”

“Sure, sure,” Véro says lightly. “Like I haven’t heard that one before. You boys are always too busy for anything but hockey.”

“Not too busy for you,” Flower says, smiling at her, and she turns towards him, her face going soft.

Sid looks down at his beer, drawing his elbows in towards his sides in the emptiness of his half of the booth.

***

The next day is American Thanksgiving. Not Sid’s holiday, and not Mario or Nathalie’s either, but the Lemieux kids are solidly Americanized at this point, and Mario has a tradition of inviting over any of the Penguins people who don’t have somewhere else to go.

Sid gets roped into vegetable preparation early the next morning. He peels potatoes and chops carrots and listens carefully to the conversation around him to see if he can pick up on hints about who’s going to be here this year.

Lots of people, apparently, but no information on the names Sid’s listening for the most. “How about the team?” he asks finally, in what he hopes is a casual voice, while he’s helping Mario tear the ends off the green beans. “Any of them going to make it?”

“You know how it is with the guys,” Mario says. “I had half a dozen tell me they might stop by, but at least half of them were just trying to be polite. We’ll see if any of them actually shows.”

_Which guys,_ Sid thinks but doesn’t ask. Gonch and Ksenia could be doing their own dinner. It would be weird for Geno to come over without them.

Sid can’t decide if that would be a bad thing or a good one. He’s pretty sure the answer is supposed to be “good.” He just can’t quite get his gut to believe it.

By the time one o’clock rolls around, the house is full of delicious smells, but Sid’s stomach is churning too nervously for him to eat anything. People will be arriving any minute—and for hours afterward, but at least some people will be on time. There’s no way to know when anyone will get here.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Steph says, while Sid helps her set up the sideboard.

“Huh?”

Steph sighs, put upon. “You’ve got to twist them, like _this._ ” She shows him with the pile of turkey-themed napkins she just unwrapped.

Sid tries, but the doorbell rings, and he loses track of what he’s doing. Steph huffs and takes over from him while Sid cranes his head to see who just showed up.

It’s just front-office people, carrying bottles of wine and side dishes, followed quickly by others. Sid gets a drink in his hand and goes to talk with them. It’s not too bad: the Pens have a winning record so far this season, which always makes it easier to talk shop, and he knows these people well enough to carry on a decent conversation, even distracted.

He’s talking to Ray—a conversation about team leadership that Sid should definitely be paying more attention to than he is—when he hears Russian accents.

They’re coming from around the corner. Sid can’t make out what they’re saying. “And it’s just a great opportunity, you know, to invest in team leadership now, with so many young players,” Ray says.

“Definitely,” Sid says. “I’m so sorry, will you excuse me for a minute?”

He makes his way into the foyer to see Gonch and Ksenia coming through the door. They’re handing Nathalie a casserole dish, something that smells like beets. “That’s so nice of you, thank you,” she says, while Sid cranes his neck to see behind them.

“It’s Geno’s favorite,” Ksenia says. “He and I made, but then he wasn’t feeling well, so he decided to stay home.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Nathalie says, and Ksenia says something about a headache while Sid’s stomach sinks.

That’s that, then. No matter how many times the doorbell rings, Geno won’t be showing up. Which is—good, of course. Now Sid can relax, enjoy the party.

Mario finds him three hours later, sitting in the empty music room with his fourth helping of beets. “Hey, I was just looking for you,” he says.

“Oh, sorry.” Sid scrambles up. “Is there anything I can—”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Mario waves a hand. “Hey, how is that stuff?”

He’s pointing to the beets. “Uh,” Sid says. He’s honestly not even sure. “Pretty good, yeah.”

Mario makes a face. “If Nathalie asks, I loved it.” He sits down on the arm of the couch. “I wanted to ask, though—how about coming into the office after we get back from New York? Ray and I had something we wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh.” Fuck. What have they noticed? Sid knows he hasn’t been at the top of his game the last couple of weeks. And the whole thing with Geno—Mario was so glad they were getting along earlier in the season. Has he noticed that they aren’t? Sid would have expected Mario to say something to him directly in that case, not bring in Ray, but maybe he has some reason to think it’s going to cause more of a problem than—

Oh no. Oh fuck. Maybe they know what’s _actually_ going on between Sid and Geno.

Sid feels cold, beets hardening into a lump in his stomach. “Uh, yeah, of course,” he says. “Anything wrong?”

“Nah, just want to talk,” Mario says lightly. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but Sid can’t quite tell. He slaps Sid on the back. “And hey, come out here, will you? You’re missing the party.”

Sid forces a sickly grin. “Right behind you.”

***

It’s two hours before Sid makes it back to the guest house, exhausted from small talk, fingers pruny from having taken refuge in washing dishes for people. The guest house is cold, and he cranks the heat, but he still ends up pulling on a hoodie and pacing around, trying to get his body heat up.

Mario and Ray could have so many things they want to talk to him about. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Geno. Sid knows there’s a lot of complicated stuff happening with the team right now—that there are even offers to move it to a different city. Maybe they want his thoughts on that. Maybe they just think the power play needs shaking up. It could be anything.

Sid tries to convince himself of that. But he can’t stop pacing. He wants to—he wants to _tell_ someone. Just to get it out of his own head.

There aren’t that many people he could talk to. Jordy knows Geno’s identity, but Sid already promised him it would be fine. He doesn’t want to break that promise. Aside from that, on the list of people who know about Sid and Geno and aren’t Mario, there’s only—well. There’s only Geno, really.

Sid stops and leans against a door frame, wrapping his arms around himself. He can so clearly imagine talking to Geno about it. Stumbling through words, finding the ones that Geno will understand, Geno’s eyes so intent on him the whole time. Geno finally understanding and telling him it’s okay. Pulling him in. Murmuring in his ear, and holding him warm and safe, and—

Sid opens his eyes, shakes himself all over, crosses the room to put distance between that vision and himself. _No._

He ends up going to bed early. He’s exhausted, so he expects to fall asleep right away, but instead he ends up lying awake for a long time, thoughts churning.

There’s one that won’t leave him alone. He’s not going to give into it, he’s _not_ , and he keeps telling himself that until it’s after one a.m. and he finally gets out of bed and goes to the dresser in the corner.

It’s still there, where he hid it away, in the second drawer under the old Océanic hoodies. The Cyrillic writing is just visible in the light from the window.

Sid raises it to his face and breathes in. The scent is still there, just like that day in the airport, and it rolls over his body like a warm bath. Sid’s shoulders drop instantly, and he takes greedy breath after greedy breath: that scent like an autumn forest with a fresh wind blowing. That scent he hasn’t been close to in days.

It will only make it worse to be close to it now. Sid knows that. But he’s cold and anxious and so tired his eyes hurt, and no one needs to know. He pulls the hoodie on and crawls into bed, breathing deep until sleep claims him. 

***

They fly to New York in the morning to play the Islanders. Sid gives Geno as wide a berth as he can all morning, even though he doubts it will help. Sid can smell Geno clear across a hockey rink; Geno can probably smell that Sid was wearing his sweatshirt last night.

Well. Geno’s already seen him at his most pathetic. What does Sid have to lose?

It’s just so hard not to watch Geno whenever he’s on the ice. Sid has so many other things he should be thinking about, should be doing; the Isles looked vicious against the Hurricanes on Wednesday, and Sid needs to bring his A game tonight. But he’s clumsy on his skates, having to replay Therry’s words in his head before he can grasp what drill they’re doing, and he can’t stop looking over at Geno.

Geno doesn’t seem to be having the same problem. He’s interacting with their teammates the same way he always does, like nothing is even bothering him. At one point he skates up to Army, says something Sid can’t hear, and Sid can’t hear Army’s response either, but he sees the way Geno laughs, the way his whole face lights up and his hand lands on Army’s back and—

The whole practice rink goes silent at the sound of the stick splintering. “What the fuck?” Rex says, and Sid looks down in horror at the half a stick in his hand.

“I—must have turned too fast,” he says. It’s the only explanation he can come up with, even to himself. He doesn’t remember trying to break his stick against the boards, but he remembers moving clumsily, just wanting to get away. He must not have realized how close to the boards he was. “I’m so sorry, guys,” he adds, bending to help the equipment guys who are already cleaning up the mess.

“All right, bring it back in, we’re moving on to rushes,” Therry calls.

Sid accepts the new stick the equipment guys give him, feeling sick with himself. He’s never lost control like that, definitely not at practice. He’s been training his body for hockey his entire life. If he’s losing that control over himself—he doesn’t know what to think about it.

Jordy is still looking at him, even though Therry’s dividing them into groups for the drill. Sid ducks his gaze.

The game that night isn’t the best. He doesn’t get a single shot on goal. The rest of the team doesn’t do much better. Geno scores the Pens’ only goal, on a pass from Army.

Sid likes Army a lot. They share a room on the road, more often than not. He’s a solid winger, great to have in the room. There’s no justification for the surge of pure hatred Sid feels when he sees him fly into Geno’s arms after the goal.

Sid doesn’t let it show on his face. He’s almost sure of it. He keeps his head down for the rest of the game, flashes a strained smile at anyone who talks to him after, slips out of conversations when anyone tries to start one. It’s the exact opposite of how he should be acting in the room after their second loss in a row. People need encouragement right now, but Sid can’t even think about providing it. It’s all he can do not to go over to Army and slug him in the face with his glove on, just for letting Geno smile at him.

Maybe it’s a good thing, if Mario and Ray have figured out what’s going on. Maybe what Sid needs is to be yelled at for the way he’s letting the team down. Fuck knows he deserves it.

They fly back after the game, have a late-morning practice to warm up for their home game against the Rangers that night. Ray taps Sid on the arm after practice and tells him to stick around afterward.

Sid’s stomach is churning as he changes back into his street clothes. He knows Geno and Jordy will be able to smell it, but he barely even cares at this point. All he wants to do is get through the next hour.

The meeting is in Ray’s office. Mario is there, and Therry as well—one more team official than Sid was planning to face. He can feel his smile waver as he sits in the one remaining chair.

“Sid, thanks for coming in,” Ray says, as if Sid is doing them a favor here. He sounds perfectly cool and comfortable, of course. “The three of us wanted to have a word with you. How would you say the season is going?”

It’s a question Sid is used to answering from reporters. It usually doesn’t feel this much like a trick question. “We, uh, definitely could have done better in those last couple games,” he says. “But overall I think we’ve got a good group of guys. Good skills, good balance of youth and experience, everyone’s heart is really in it.”

“How would you characterize the feeling in the room?” Mario asks.

Sid wishes they would just come to the point. “Pretty much in the same vein,” he says. “There’s a really good spirit of collaboration. I’ve seen a lot of older guys helping the younger guys out, showing them the ropes, helping them with skills. It’s, uh, it’s a really positive environment.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that helping,” Ray says. “Not sure we could call you one of the older guys.”

Sid hasn’t been helping that much. Not as much as he should be. “I guess I’ve always kind of done that,” he says. “In Juniors, we were all pretty close in age, so it was natural to help each other out.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re doing it here,” Therry says. “I think you’ve been making a real difference to a lot of our players.”

“I agree,” Ray says. “Which is why we’d like to offer you the position of captain.”

At first Sid thinks he’s misheard. He blinks at them, trying to realign the words into something that makes sense. “I’m sorry, what?” he says finally.

“You heard us,” Ray says with a grin. “You deserve it, son.”

“You do,” Mario says seriously. “I’ve been in the room with you. Even those first few months, when you only had a few NHL games under your belt, people were already looking up to you. I’m excited to see what more you can do with the power of the captaincy behind you.”

Sid’s having trouble breathing. They can’t be serious. The way he’s been acting the past few weeks—is it a joke? Are they messing with him? But their faces are serious. They aren’t the kind of men to joke like this.

He struggles to clear his throat. “I’m—only nineteen,” he manages to say.

“It’s young, definitely,” Therry says. “But you’re one of the most level-headed players I’ve seen in a while. If we had any doubts of your maturity in handling this role, we wouldn’t be asking you.”

They don’t know, Sid realizes slowly. They think he’s this thing that he’s not. They think he’s still—the guy Mario played with at the beginning of last year. The guy who’d never shaken Geno’s hand and felt everything slip out from under him.

They’re all looking at him warmly, like they’re pleased to be able to offer him this. Like this is a reward. He’s so desperately relieved, suddenly, that none of them are wolves. That none of them can smell the fear-sweat soaking through his armpits.

“Can I have some time to think about it?” he blurts out. He just wants—he wants to get out of that room, to not have to say—

“Of course,” Ray says. “Take a few days, let us know what you’re thinking. Feel free to talk to any of us in the meantime. We’d be happy to address any questions you might have.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, standing up to shake their hands. It takes all the self-control he has not to trip over his chair in his haste to get out of there.

He’s barely outside the building when he’s dialing his family’s home number. His dad answers on the second ring, and it’s such a relief to hear his voice; Sid feels his chest cave in a little.

“Sid,” his dad says. “I’m glad you called. Your mom and I were talking about the three of us coming down. Maybe in a week or so, when you’re back from New Jersey?”

“What?” Sid says. He’s still stuck on the meeting he just had, disoriented by the change of topic. “Uh, I don’t know. I just got out of a meeting with management.”

His dad’s voice is a little sharper. “Anything we should know?”

“Just, um.” Sid’s having trouble getting it out. “They want me to be the captain of the Penguins.”

His dad takes a second to respond. When he does, he sounds almost overcome. “That’s great, son,” he says. “That’s amazing news. That’s everything we hoped for you.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Sid can hear the scraping in his own voice. The way his throat can’t open all the way. “I don’t know if I’m ready; I—”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t have asked you if they didn’t think you were ready,” his dad says.

Sid leans against the side of the building. He wants to tell him. Can’t keep it inside anymore. _I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a real alpha. I’m—broken, I’m—_

“Maybe,” he manages to say.

“To be honest, your mom and I were hoping it would happen this year,” his dad says. “She and Taylor will be thrilled.”

“Dad,” Sid says, his voice cracking. He _could_ tell him. His family are all wolves; he could trust Geno’s identity with them. It wouldn’t be the safest move in the world, but it’s the best one he can think of. And then this wouldn’t be inside of him, choking him, making his ribs feel like they’re going to crack.

He opens his mouth to say it. Thinks about how it might feel to have them know it. How they might react. How impossible it would be to take the words back.

He lets his breath out in a rush. “I just—don’t know,” he says finally.

His dad’s voice is gentle when he speaks again. “It’s important work they’re asking you to do, Sidney,” he says. “I know it’s soon, but it’s also what you’ve always wanted for yourself. I hope you won’t let a little nervousness keep you from taking it on.”

Sid has his eyes shut. “Right,” he says faintly

“So what do you think?” his dad asks. “Up for a visit next week?”

“Next week—” Sid tries to think about his schedule. Draws a blank. “I think that’s fine?”

“Well, let us know for sure,” his dad says. “It’ll be good to see you. And now we have something to celebrate.”

“Yeah.” It would be good to see them, too. To hug them. To have them—

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Sid’s eyes pop open. “I’ll let you know!” he says, adrenaline galloping through him, and wraps up the conversation as quickly as he can.

He leans against the wall of the building with his phone in his hand, breathing hard. There’s nothing in his head besides panic. He could lie to his parents, put them off this visit, but the holidays are coming up. He’ll have to see them eventually. And when he does, he won’t have a choice about whether to tell them about Geno. His parents are wolves who’ve known him since he was born. They get within ten feet of him, and they’ll _know._

Sid squeezes his hand around his phone, breath rasping in his ears. He’s outdoors, but he feels like the walls are closing in around him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief instance of panic-attack-like symptoms.

They have a game that night. Rangers. Sid goes home, tries to nap, but he can’t quiet the hammering in his chest.

Captain. They want him to be captain. They want him to stand at the head of the room and be the one everyone looks to.

Sid always thought he could do that. Every hockey team he’s been on his whole life, he’s gravitated to the position at the head of the room. He assumed he would do the same thing when he got to the NHL. Until this fall, when everything that makes him a good leader seems to be crumbling in his grip.

He tries really hard to sleep. He knows he needs to, in order to do what he needs to do at the game tonight. But his body feels like it’s vibrating. By the time he gets up to go to the rink, his head is pounding, the world overbright like he’s been staring for hours into the glare of a rink. His body battered thin and brittle.

It takes him forever to get his equipment on. He has to move slowly and carefully, give his fingers time to fumble with each piece. The snap of pads into place hurts a little like he has the body aches that come with a fever. Maybe that’s it—maybe that’s all that’s been going on these past few weeks. Just the world’s worst case of the flu.

It’s so hard to breathe in this locker room. There are so many scents. There’s the one that takes up the whole other half of the room, but there are so many others crowding in on top of that. Whits a few stalls down, smelling like his girlfriend and their dog. Army just past him, smelling like a restaurant he must have gone to, choked with spice. Clairy’s new shirt smelling like chemicals. Rex’s new baby. Jordy’s scent of wolf. And all the people they’ve been with, all the places they’ve gone, too much. Sid can’t take it. He wants to stop breathing, but he can’t, has to keep dragging breath after breath.

“What?” he says, voice strangled, to the new assistant coach.

“I…just wanted to let you know you’re starting.” The guy looks weirded out. Sid can’t even remember his name. “You good?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” Sid grabs his stick, lurches forward. “I’m great. Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s standing at center ice across from Martin Straka, waiting for the puck to drop, the noise of the arena pressing in on him from all sides. The puck drops, and Straka gets it before Sid’s stick hits the ice.

It doesn’t get better. Sid can’t play for shit. He needs to get it together, he knows that, tells himself that before every shift, but it feels like the ice isn’t steady under his feet. Like he’s trying to play using someone else’s limbs.

Therry yells at their line during the first intermission. “Okay, guys,” Sid says before they go out again, “let’s pull it together,” but he can’t follow his own advice. How does he usually do this: play twenty solid minutes of good hockey in an arena this crowded and loud?

He doesn’t even see the hit coming. He’s skating toward the goal, puck miraculously on his stick, and Aaron Ward slams him to the ice.

It’s not even an illegal check. Just a vicious one, and if Sid had been paying attention and skating as fast as he could he could have avoided it. But he didn’t, and now he’s on the ice, trying to breathe through the shock.

Play is still going. He needs to get up. He manages after a minute and heads back to the bench. “No, I’m okay,” he says to the trainers who cluster around as soon as he’s over the boards. “I’m just—”

A roar goes up in the arena. Sid spins around to see Geno fighting Ward.

It’s not much of a contest. Ward is fighting back—he’s about the same size as Geno, has at least ten years of experience on him—but Geno is absolutely demolishing him. Gloves off, Ward’s arm pinned against his body, Geno’s right fist smashing into his face. A look on his face of pure fury.

“Jesus, he’s gonna kill him,” Army says.

Sid…wants to reply. Can’t make his throat work. May never be able to make his throat work again.

Geno gets pulled off Ward. He’s still spitting mad, fighting against the refs. Madder than Sid saw him in that clip he looked up before the start of the season. He gets carted off toward the box, and his eyes roam the arena and land on Sid.

It feels like a puck to the chest. Sid can’t breathe for a whole ten seconds.

He has no idea how he gets through the rest of the game. He doesn’t remember much about it. He plays his shifts, takes his faceoffs, talks to the media, but he’s not really there for it. He’s just floating through it. Waiting until—

He stops short in the shower, water pouring down on his half-shampooed hair. Geno is gone.

The knowledge hits him all of a sudden, like the water hitting his skin. Wherever Geno is, he’s not in the locker room complex anymore. He’s gone. 

Sid charges back into the changing room, still dripping wet. Someone’s in the door—Jordy. Sid pushes past him, looks around, then turns back. “Where’s Geno?”

Jordy stops talking. He was in the middle of a sentence, maybe. Sid doesn’t care. “What? I don’t know.”

“He was just here. Where did he go?” Sid’s heartbeat is a sickening thump.

“Home, I guess?” Jordy says. “Hey, are you—”

Sid grabs his bag and sprints toward the door. Stops before the end of the last bench, puts his clothes and shoes on. Then runs to his car.

Gonch’s place is maybe a ten-minute drive away. Sid makes it in eight.

Geno answers the door after a minute or so. “Sid,” he says. He’s already out of his suit, wearing sweats. “What—”

Sid falls to his knees.

It feels so good to do it. Like he’s finally dropping a weight he’s been carrying around for days. His shoulders drop, all the knotted muscles in his neck stretching out. “Please,” he says, voice scraping out.

There’s a beat where everything is still. Sid feels the thump of his heart, loud in his ears. He feels Geno towering above him. Geno’s dark against the light, huge, and his scent—his _scent_. Then Geno sucks in a breath. “Sid,” he says, and his hand—his hand lands on Sid’s hair.

All of Sid’s breath whooshes out of him. He wants to cry, it feels so good. The weight of it, the warm curve of Geno’s hand on his skull. It makes Sid want to crumple further, flatten himself into a ball. Fall and never stop falling.

Geno’s scent is thick around him. It’s rich with the sweat of the game, tinged with the lingering bitterness of the fight. _Sid’s_ fight, where Geno threw fists for Sid’s protection. It smells like autumn leaves stacked into a pyre, waiting for a flame.

Sid wants the flame. He wants them both to go up in it. Slowly, deliberately, he gives in to the impulse he’s had since that first day they met back in July: he tips his head back and bares his throat.

Geno’s scent changes in a rush. It goes hot like the rising flames, rolling over both of them. His hand tightens in Sid’s hair, a quick clench. The tug trickles down Sid’s body and makes him whimper. He pushes into the touch, wanting more, and Geno gives him what he needs: he tightens his hand in Sid’s hair again, pulls his head farther back this time. He skids his thumb over Sid’s forehead and makes Sid’s whole body shudder.

“Please,” Sid says again, half a sound. Geno’s hand slides down to his shoulder, grips convulsively, and then he pulls him up and into his arms.

Sid sobs in relief. It’s so good, not to have to carry any of his own weight. Geno wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. He presses his lips to Sid’s temple and murmurs things, breath steaming against Sid’s skin. His body is warm and solid against Sid’s, and Sid can’t remember the last time he felt this good.

This is what he’s been fighting against, these past few months. Right now he can’t remember why. What was he holding out for, when he could have been having this? Geno’s mouth is on his cheek, pressing a little row of kisses down to the line of his stubble. Geno’s hair is in his mouth. He’s holding Sid so close the whole world is full of warmth. This is everything Sid wants.

He’s not sure when he starts hyperventilating. It’s somewhere between Geno sliding his mouth along Sid’s jaw and Geno finding Sid’s mouth with his. Geno’s kiss is soft and wet and hot and carves right into the heart of him and all of a sudden Sid doesn’t have enough air. He kisses back hungrily, sucking Geno’s tongue into his mouth, and his chest tightens, and there’s this wheezing sound coming from—

Geno’s mouth pulls away from it. Sid chases it with a whine, desperate to have it back, but he can’t find it. His vision is blurring. Fuck, why isn’t there any _air_ —

“Sh. Sh, Sid.” Geno’s hands are on his head, pulling him forward to nestle on his shoulder. “Sh, baby.”

His hands run up and down Sid’s back, and then one of them cups the back of Sid’s neck. Sid lets out a shuddering sob. It’s hard to pull in air again, he’s panicking, but Geno’s hand is gripping the back of his neck. It’s just enough pressure to keep his throat open. He pulls in breath after breath, chest heaving.

“Yes, good,” Geno whispers in his ear. “Yes, Sid, so good.”

Sid’s vision is starting to clear. It’s getting a little too clear, the world too vivid. His knees are starting to shake, even though Geno’s holding him up. He wants the fire back. He tilts his head and licks up Geno’s neck.

He can taste the woodsmoke rising in Geno’s scent. Can feel the way Geno’s body reacts to his. Geno tightens the hand on Sid’s neck, tries to pull him back, but Sid knows what he wants. He gets his mouth on the tender skin under Geno’s jaw, sucks—

“No,” Geno says, pulling him back again.

Sid—crumples. He’s still in Geno’s arms, so he can’t fall, but his legs totally give out. He panics, trying to get them back online, and realizes his arms aren’t working, either. He can’t hold onto Geno. He’s falling. He’s going to fall. He—

“Sid,” Geno says, command rumbling through his voice. He tightens the arm around Sid’s waist, anchoring him Geno’s body. Then with his other hand he trips Sid’s chin up so he can look him in the face.

Sid doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want Geno to see him right now. But the idea of him looking away—that’s even worse. Geno’s eyes are burning his skin, studying his face, and the only thing more horrible would be if Geno stopped.

Geno doesn’t stop. His eyes come to rest on Sid’s, a soft look in them. He cups a hand around the side of Sid’s face. Runs a thumb across his cheekbone. Brushes very, very lightly, infinitesimally lightly, over his bottom lip. Sid’s eyes slide shut again. He feels like there’s a liquid drip of calm in his chest, slowly filling his entire body.

“Come,” Geno says, his voice low, and he takes Sid’s hand and leads him into the bedroom.

***

When Sid wakes up many hours later, the light is starting to filter through the window blinds, and he’s impossibly comfortable.

He keeps his eyes closed and breathes deep. The whole room smells like Geno. Layers and layers of scent, built up over days and weeks and months. It’s even better than the sweatshirt. Sid’s been breathing it all night, but he still takes in a deep breath and holds it in his lungs so he can absorb it all the way.

Geno. Geno is still here, pressed against his back.

Sid remembers last night. It’s a little hazy, like he’s looking back on a night a few weeks ago when he had a few drinks. But he remembers coming over here. He remembers throwing himself at Geno’s feet. Geno kissing him, and his own freakout, and the way Geno held him afterward. The way he led Sid into his bedroom.

Sid closes his eyes again. The part before that was hard to remember, but the part after that—he doesn’t want to forget. Geno’s hands, helping him out of his suit pants and shoes and jacket. Pulling him onto the bed with him. Tucking him into his chest, stroking him, his hands running all over Sid’s body. Putting pressure on him, anchoring him until Sid didn’t feel anymore like his body was going to fly apart. Until his breath slowed and moved easily through his chest. Until he fell asleep, held in Geno’s arms.

Geno stirs behind him. Sid stiffens a little. The discomfort feels foreign in his body: like it couldn’t possible belong here when he feels this good. A glow of well-being in all his limbs.

He gives brief consideration to the idea of getting out of bed and leaving before they can talk. But—Geno deserves more than that. And it doesn’t feel impossible to turn and face him right now. Sid’s head feels clearer than it’s been in weeks.

He turns around in Geno’s arms. Geno’s eyes are already open. His face is sleepy and soft-looking, his right cheek pink and pillow-creased. Sid’s stomach hitches.

“Good morning,” Geno says, voice deep and morning-rough.

He smells even better than the room. Sid wants to eat him whole. He wasn’t planning to do anything like this when he turned around, but he can’t resist. He leans in and presses his mouth to Geno’s.

He keeps it light, just a soft touch of lips. When he pulls back, Geno’s eyes are lit up, his face bright with joy.

Sid drops his eyes to Geno’s chest. “Sorry,” he says.

“Sorry kiss?” Geno asks.

“No,” Sid says. He wishes Geno couldn’t see his face. “Sorry…for last night.”

“No sorry,” Geno says. He runs a hand over Sid’s head and rests it on his shoulder. Not so close to his neck that Sid can’t think, but a comforting pressure regardless. “Last night good.”

Sid gives him a look. Geno grins ruefully, conceding his point. “Sid good,” he corrects himself, tucking a stray bit of hair behind Sid’s ear.

Sid’s eyes flutter shut against his will. He could get used to this, to being touched like this, to being told he’s good. He’s…not sure if he should. “Sorry I fell apart on you,” he says.

There’s no way Geno’s going to follow that. “Part,” Geno repeats, a question in his voice.

“Sorry I…” Sid presses his face into the pillow. He can’t look at Geno while he says this. “I know you didn’t want that.”

“Sid.” There’s so much heat in Geno’s voice that Sid has to open his eyes again. Geno’s face is so _close._ “Want,” Geno says. “Always want.”

A shiver goes down Sid’s spine. “But you…”

Geno cups a hand around Sid’s face. “Not want…sad. Not want…” He frowns, then mimes with his hand: someone walking along and then tipping over.

“Fall,” Sid says, gut tightening.

Geno nods. “Not want fall.” He cups Sid’s face again. “But.” He smiles crookedly, sweetly. “Want you.”

Sid squeezes his eyes shut. _Why,_ he doesn’t ask. _Why would you want me, when I’m—_

He doesn’t say that out loud. Doesn’t want to have to think it.

“Sid.” Geno’s voice is serious. His hand finds Sid’s waist under the blankets. “What Sid want?”

Sid is so _comfortable_. Even having this conversation, having to think about these things he’d rather never have to think about, his body still feels so good. Like it’s soaking up the warmth of Geno’s touch. Soaking up the calm of this quiet space that lives between them. He can’t shatter those things with a lie.

He doesn’t. Instead he leans in and catches Geno’s lips in a kiss.

It’s not like the kiss earlier, too quick to count. It’s not like the kisses from last night, either, when Sid was losing his mind. This one is slow, lush, open, and after it’s been going for a minute Geno groans and puts a hand on Sid’s shoulder to press him to the bed. Sid feels a wave of heat like flash fire and tips his head back so Geno can kiss him deep and thorough.

Sid pulls away before the kiss can reach a point of no return. His whole body feels shivery, pulse hammering, and Geno is looking at him with dark eyes.

“I need to think,” Sid says. He squeezes Geno’s hand. “I need…I don’t know.” His head is starting to swim again. “I need to go, I think.”

He extricates himself from the bed and pulls on his clothes. He can feel Geno’s eyes on him the whole time. His suit is in pretty sad shape; his suit jacket is definitely going to need to be dry-cleaned before he can wear it again.

He goes to the door, then turns around before opening it. “Thanks,” he says abruptly. “And, uh.” Geno’s still in bed, gazing across the room at him. Sid can barely hear himself over the sudden tympani beat of his pulse. “Just so you know. I want.”

It doesn’t mean everything. It doesn’t mean he can have what he wants. But the look on Geno’s face stays with him all the way home.

***

They only have optional skate that morning. Sid’s not planning to go, especially after the night he just had—but once he’s home and showered and changed, he realizes he kind of wants to. Skating sounds amazing right now, actually. His body feels really good, like he just caught up on two months’ worth of sleep in a single night.

About half the team shows up to the rink. Not Geno or Jordy, thank god. Sid’s still worried that even the humans will be able to tell what happened last night. The way he threw himself at Geno’s feet last night, the way he slept in his arms. There’s no way they can tell, of course, but he’s still feels a trickle of paranoia when he grins a hello at everyone.

Even with that worry in the back of his mind, he can’t keep his mood down. His body just feels so good. Like all his joints are moving better than they have in weeks. He’s lacing his skates, mentally revising the warmup stretches he wants to do, when Fleury comes over and slaps him on the back. “Well, looks like someone got laid last night.”

Sid twitches up. “What?”

Fleury gestures at him. “You’re, like, smiling at your skates.”

“Oh,” Sid says. Yeah, he guesses he was. “I was just—thinking about skate,” he says honestly.

Fleury rolls his eyes. “I swear to God. Only you.”

Sid feels a little bad about misleading him. But it’s not a lie: he didn’t get laid, and he’s really excited about skate. It feels like a while since he’s looked forward this much to hitting the ice. He forgot how he used to just feel like this, all the time.

The good feeling continues when he’s on the ice. He was a little worried the distraction of last night would throw him, but that’s more than balanced out by how much more solid he feels on his skates than usual. His mind might be elsewhere, but his body is filling in, his reflexes sharp in a way he hadn’t realized he was missing.

“Fuck, glad I don’t have to face you in real games,” Whits says after Sid gets past him twice in a row in one-on-one drills.

Sid grins and slaps him on the back. “That was a nice poke check.”

“Easy for you to say,” Whits says, but he doesn’t sound upset. It was a good performance on both sides. When you’re drilling against your own team, everyone wins.

Sid stays after skate to help Max with his faceoffs. He offers without thinking, because Max is clearly upset with his performance, and Sid can see a couple of specific things he could be doing better. They’ve working for about ten minutes before Sid realizes what he’s doing and stops mid-sentence.

“Yeah?” Max prompts after a minute.

“Yeah, sorry,” Sid says. “The point is, you’ve totally got this. You just don’t quite believe it yet, and the other guy can see that. Learn to trust your own hands, and you’ll be unstoppable.”

Max nods, eyes narrowed in focus.

They work for about twenty more minutes before packing it in. “Hey,” Sid says, as they’re heading to the showers. It’s probably kind of a weird question to ask someone, but: “What do you think about my presence in the room?”

Max looks startled. “What? You’re awesome, obviously.”

“No, I mean.” Max was on the team last year, but only for about half the season. He’s going to have more of a bias towards this season than most of the other guys. “Do you feel like I’m a leader?”

Max narrows his eyes. “Is that a trick question?”

“No,” Sid says honestly.

Max rolls his eyes and starts stripping off his gear. “You’re going to be captain before you’re twenty-two, don’t even front.”

Sid takes his time taking off his own gear, lingering after Max goes off to the showers. When he finally goes to the showers, he stands under the spray for a long time, letting the water beat against his body.

He gets dressed again and heads outside and wanders down to the river. It’s November, so the river walk is almost deserted, but Sid has a good coat and scarf. Plus, he’s from Canada, and he makes his living on top of a sheet of ice. He’s never been that bothered by the cold.

It’s one of those overcast almost-winter days where the air is cold enough to feel clear anyway, and the water is slate-gray under the white sky. Sid walks by the river for a long time, following the Monongahela to the Ohio. When he reaches Point State Park, he stops and finds a bench. He sends a quick text and then sits, scarf wrapped tight, staring at the rushing water.

Geno shows up maybe twenty minutes later. Sid gets that prickling feeling on his neck that means his wolf senses have picked up on something, and a minute later, Geno comes and sits down next to him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just sits, in his huge duffel coat, and rubs his hands together and blows a puff of white in the frosty air. The tip of his nose is pink from the cold.

Sid looks at the pink tip of his nose, at Geno’s eyes, staring out at the water. He had a plan for what he was going to say, but now that Geno is here, it feels different. It always does; ever since they first met, Geno’s been like a magnet, making all the parts of Sid line up differently than they did before. Scrambling his thoughts. Turning him into someone he never expected himself to be.

“So,” he says finally. “I’m kind of scared.”

It’s not quite what he was planning to say. Geno turns his head to look at him. “Scared why?”

Sid breathes in, feels the cold in his lungs. “You make me feel…” So many things. Even now, not touching, Geno’s presence fills him with too many feelings. Sid can’t take it. And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

He looks out at the dark rush of the water. He needs to say it. “You make me feel—like I’m not an alpha.”

“Sid.” Geno’s voice is insistent. “Alpha.”

Sid looks at him. Opens his mouth to agree that yes, of course, he knows he’s an alpha. What he actually says is, “Am I?”

His voice cracks. It’s embarrassing. Geno looks back at him, gentle but puzzled. “Sid not know?”

“No, I—” Sid blows a breath of air out. “I know. I just—”

He scrubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t know. He feels like he doesn’t know anything anymore. “How can I be an alpha,” he asks, “when I feel like this around you?”

He feels like he’s opened his coat and let the November wind into his chest. He wants to wrap himself up tight again. He dares another look at Geno, and Geno is looking back at him like he sees and understands. “Sid,” he says. “Alpha you.” He touches his hand to Sid’s chest, a quick glancing press. “Alpha not…” He makes a bitey face and forms his gloved hands into claws.

“Alphas aren’t scary,” Sid says. “I know, I—”

But Geno’s shaking his head. “Alpha not—do,” he says. “Alpha—” He puts his hand to Sid’s chest again, then to his own. Frustrated, like he doesn’t have the words. But Sid thinks he gets it.

“Alpha is what you are,” he says. “Not what you do.”

Geno nods, relieved. “Alpha _are_.”

“But…” It doesn’t matter that Sid is technically an alpha. He already knows that. It’s the kind of alpha he wants to be that matters. And also—“If I’m an alpha,” he asks, “how can you want me?”

Geno’s eyes go hot for a moment. “Mama—hm.” He looks away, out over the water. “Geno small, ask, Mama say. You see mate, you know. No question.” He slides his eyes over to Sid. “I’m see Sid.”

Sid feels his whole body flush. “You knew?”

“Know,” Geno says, eyes unwavering on him. “Touch hand. Know.”

Sid swallows, looks away. His heart is pounding wildly. “I thought we would fight,” he mumbles.

“No fight,” Geno says, scoffing like that’s ridiculous. “New pack, not fight.”

Sid’s not following. “New pack?”

“Team,” Geno says. “Sid pack. I’m not fight Sid pack.”

Sid frowns at him. “You think the team is my pack?”

Geno just looks back, like, _yes, duh._

“That’s…no,” Sid says. “The team isn’t my pack.”

“You lead,” Geno says, still giving Sid that look like this is incredibly obvious. “You alpha.”

“Yeah, but…” Sid didn’t know he thought like that. He thought they were both being careful _not_ to take the team as their pack. But now that he’s thinking about it…Geno’s never tried to lead the team at all. The only person he’s ever tried to act like an alpha towards is Sid.

Of course, Geno’s still new. He’s only played with them for a couple of months, and he still doesn’t really speak the language. Those are good enough reasons not to lead that it never occurred to Sid that Geno might have another one. That he might be deliberately holding back out of respect for a claim. Because he thought the pack was Sid’s.

Is he right?

Mario and Ray and Therry seem to think he is. That he could be, anyway. They’re offering Sid the chance to make it his pack. They think he can do it, and so does Geno, even though he’s seen Sid crumple under the touch of his hand.

Sid gets hot again, thinking of it. “But,” he says. “How can it be my pack, when I…when I…”

Geno puts a gloved hand on his knee. “You?” he prompts when Sid doesn’t go on.

Sid closes his eyes. It feels so good, whenever Geno touches him. So much more than good. Like his body is suddenly _right_ down to the marrow of his bones. “When I…kneel for you,” he whispers.

Geno’s scent changes. It gets hot and smoky, a flash of red foliage in the chill of the November air. Sid breathes in and feels the tug of—that hazy feeling, the one he felt last night. If he wanted to, he could slip into it. Fall to his knees without moving a muscle.

“You kneel,” Geno says softly. “What question?”

It’s so hard to think when Geno’s hand is still on his knee. And that, that is the problem right there. How can Sid lead, when Geno makes him feel like his bones are melting?

Geno runs his hand up and down Sid’s thigh. “You want kneel,” he says. “Yes?”

Sid nods, shame tight in his throat. Yes. He can’t even imagine denying it right now.

“You want kneel, you want lead,” Geno says. “Pack, team. You want lead.”

Sid nods again. He’s always wanted it. He wants to be that voice in the room that people turn towards. He can’t help it.

“So,” Geno says, like it’s all decided. “You lead, you kneel.”

Sid opens his eyes. Geno is looking at him like he’s just offered Sid something obvious and is just waiting for Sid to agree. Like it’s a solution, and not just a restatement of the problem: Sid leads the team, and he kneels for Geno. This morning, and then last night. Both things in the same life.

It doesn’t seem possible. It’s completely ridiculous. If nothing else: “What if I need to tell you to do something at the rink?” he asks. “How do I lead you?”

Geno frowns at him. “You want Geno kneel ice?”

“No, of course not,” Sid says. That’s not—that’s not what a captain does.

Geno spreads his hands. “So.”

Sid lets out a laugh, and then immediately feels like he wants to cry. It can’t be that easy. He can’t just—have both things. He _knows_ he can’t.

But…this morning. And last night. This morning was the best practice he’s had in ages, and not just in terms of his own play. He was paying attention, talking to his teammates, helping them when he could. Standing taller than he has in weeks. Because he finally went to his knees.

It doesn’t make any sense. Sid wants it too badly to be able to believe it.

Geno’s still looking at him. “I scared, too.”

“Yeah?” Sid says. He probably shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. “What are you scared of?”

Geno smiles at him, a little sadly. “Scared Sid not want,” he says. He takes his hand off Sid’s knee, brushes his thumb across Sid’s biceps. “Scared I’m not hold.”

Sid’s stomach does an entire flip. “Fuck,” he breathes. He grabs for Geno and kisses him.

Geno is startled for a moment, fumbling, and then he opens his mouth and takes over the kiss. He presses his cold lips to Sid’s and licks into his mouth, hot enough to make Sid shiver. He bends himself to the curve of Geno’s body and kisses hungrily back.

It’s too soon when Geno pulls his mouth away. Sid looks up at him, dazed. Geno cups the side of Sid’s face, the leather of his glove soft against Sid’s skin. “Yes?” Geno asks, studying his face. Making sure, Sid realizes, that his eyes are clear. That he knows what he’s agreeing to.

Sid knows. He might not be sure how the pieces fit together, but he’s done denying it. If there’s any chance he can have both—any chance of this crazy idea working—he can’t say no to it. Not when it feels like this. “Yes,” he says.

The smile on Geno’s face is bright enough to light all of Point State Park. He pulls Sid in and kisses him again and again and again, warm and happy and tasting like the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to come! :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said this would be the last chapter? Well, I realized somewhere around the 11K mark of the purported last chapter that I was wrong. XD Here is a not-the-last chapter!

Sid’s family gets in at noon on Saturday. The team flew in from New Jersey late last night and have another game against the Islanders that night, so there’s no practice that morning. Geno and Sid have a lazy morning at Sid’s place, sleeping in past nine, and after breakfast they prepare for Sid’s family’s arrival with Geno putting Sid on his knees.

Sid’s not _that_ nervous about his family coming. A little anxious, maybe. Anytime before this week, if he’d had this level of anxiety, he would have just been steeling himself to push through it. But now he doesn’t have to, because he has something so much better.

They’ve done this a few times already, in the week since their conversation at Point State Park. The week since Sid went over to Geno’s house and fell at his feet in desperation. Since then Geno’s been showing him a better way to go to his knees: gently. Without fear. Believing—or at least starting to believe—that this is something he has a right to enjoy.

The first thing Geno does, before he puts Sid on his knees that morning, is make sure it’s warm enough in the house. That’s something he’s been doing a lot this week: messing with Sid’s thermostat whenever he’s over at Sid’s house.

Sid tends to keep it cold. Not for any particular reason. He just grew up that way. When he’s cold, he puts on a sweater. The first time Geno raised the temperature, Sid tried to protest that he didn’t need it any warmer, and Geno gave him a look.

“Like warm?” Geno asked.

“Well,” Sid said. He couldn’t really say he didn’t.

“So,” Geno said, and a little while later the house filled with warmth that made Sid’s shoulders drop and his muscles unknot in places he hadn’t even known were tight.

The house is a little colder again this morning, a holdover from the road trip. As they finish up breakfast Geno goes to mess with the thermostat. By the time he leads Sid into the living room, the air is already warming up.

There’s a floor cushion waiting in front of the couch. That’s the second thing Geno did when Sid started kneeling for him: made sure he had something soft to kneel on. Sid blushed when Geno first brought it over, this over-sized pillow that was too big to make sense on the couch or the bed. But it was new, with the Penguins logo on it, and Sid couldn’t say no to something Geno had so obviously bought for him. And he had to admit, when he was kneeling on it later that night, that it was more comfortable than the hardwood floors.

Geno doesn’t lower Sid to the pillow right away. He pulls Sid into his arms instead and holds him close. He strokes his hands up and down Sid’s arms and back, both of them breathing deep of each other’s scents. Then, when Sid feels his body start to soften, just a little bit of wobble inside of him, Geno lowers him to the pillow.

It’s such a relief to let himself bend like that. Sid would never have thought that he needed to. And he’s still not sure that _need_ is the right word—but it’s like the heat in his house. He could function just fine with the temperature lower. It’s just that this is so much better.

He kneels on his Penguins cushion, and Geno sits on the couch behind him, his thighs snug around Sid’s shoulders. They tried it the other way at first, Sid facing Geno, but Sid doesn’t like that; it feels like his back is exposed to the room. He likes it much better like this, Geno all around his back and sides, making him feel totally surrounded and safe.

Geno always keeps a hand on some part of him while they do this. His shoulder, his head. Sometimes he massages little circles in the back of his neck. If Sid is really freaking out about something, Geno will wrap his hand around the back of Sid’s neck and grip until Sid feels calm again. He doesn’t usually need that when he’s kneeling, though. Just being down here, Geno’s thighs hugging his shoulders, Geno above him with a hand on him, is enough to make his head go soft and fuzzy.

He can feel it happening now. Geno’s left hand is on his shoulder with the thumb just nudging up against his spine. A little bit of pressure, just shy of the neck. That’s more than enough to send Sid under when he’s on his knees like this.

It’s a feeling not quite like anything else he’s ever experienced. The closest thing he can think of the state half between sleeping and waking, when his thoughts flow along freely without ever quite touching down or taking solid shape. Except when he’s falling asleep, the thoughts are sometimes strained or dark. Here, with Geno’s hand on him, he’s floating in a bright sunlit stream. All the thoughts are warm and easy.

His family is coming. That’s the thought he’s been having the most often the past few days. His family, the thing that scared him a week ago, when he thought they’d come to town and see the way Sid was falling apart. But now the falling apart is complete; he opened his hands and let everything drop, and Geno picked up the pieces and held them until they knit back together. That danger is in the past. Any problems in the future will feel different.

He told his family on Thursday night. He and Geno talked it over, and they decided Sid’s parents should know before they got here. So Sid called, and Geno held his hand while Sid told them he was seeing someone.

His parents didn’t seem to know how to react when Sid told them who it was. They’ve been talking since, but it’s mostly logistics. Sid doesn’t know what’s going to happen when they arrive. But he wants to see them, and he especially wants to see Taylor. He wants to make them all a part of the new life he’s starting.

He floats in those thoughts, running them through his fingers without any of the stress he’s been feeling for the past few days. He’s sinking, slowly and surely, into a kind of calm that runs deeper than Sid knew his body went. Down and down and down. Tension unraveling, every tendon and joint and muscle going _right_ down to the capillaries in his fingertips. All of him aligning with the hum of Geno’s hand on his shoulder.

Peace. Calm. Warmth. Geno like a sweet bright haze around him.

He has no sense of time passing. The first thing he notices is Geno’s hand moving on his back. Small movements at first, gentle pressure, and then longer sweeps along his trapezius and down his spine. “Sid,” Geno says, low, and Sid hears him from deep in the cloudy waters of the river and starts swimming to the surface.

As he does, he becomes more aware of his body in the room. His eyelids, closed. His knees, bent, starting to be just a little bit stiff. The brush of Geno’s breath on his ear.

Sid’s chest catches. Geno’s face is bent close to his, his breath fanning hotly over the side of Sid’s face. Sid catches the scent of it, and suddenly his mouth is watering and his blood is rising.

He tilts his head just a little, exposing that side of his neck. Geno makes a low sound, and his breath quickens on Sid’s cheek. He lowers his mouth and presses it to the thin skin under Sid’s ear.

“Do we have time?” Sid asks, his voice rough with disuse. He has no idea how long he was under for.

“Sid,” Geno says, his voice gruff and urgent. Sid surges up and straddles his lap, kissing him hungrily.

He’s been hungry for Geno for weeks, it feels like. Now that he can touch Geno, kiss him, be held down by him, the hunger’s only stronger, like a flame that’s been given air. They’ve been making out every change they’ve had, tasting with hands and with mouths, working each other up until they ache with it. And then not going farther, because Geno keeps saying not yet.

Sid doesn’t mind. Even when his gut is knotted and twisted with frustration. He likes knowing that Geno is in charge of their sex life. Geno will decide when they’re ready, and then he’ll give Sid what he’s been dying for.

Of course, that doesn’t mean they haven’t come together. Rubbing up against each other like this, drunk on each other’s mouths and skin, it’s basically inevitable that they spill over sometimes.

Sid can already tell this is going to be one of those times. They’re both so worked up already, just from Geno putting him on his knees. Geno’s pulling him close, biting into his mouth and showing no inclination to decelerate. “What time is it?” Sid asks into his mouth. There’s a clock behind him, but he can’t even imagine turning to look right now. “Geno, what time is it?”

Geno breaks off, panting. “One one four three,” he says, which Sid’s lust-fogged brain takes a minute to parse. Eleven forty-three. Plenty of time, when they’re both this close to the edge.

Geno tips them both sideways on the couch so that he can lie on top of Sid. Sid goes down with relief, letting himself slip into a haze that’s a few degrees hotter than the one he feels on his knees. Geno’s on top of him; Sid doesn’t have to control anything anymore. He just has to reach up for Geno’s kisses, let Geno grind them together, hitch his own hips up so their cocks can rub together.

That’s been one of the surprises of all this: how much he’s into Geno’s cock. Sid never spent a lot of time thinking about touching another man’s cock before. There was a tiny part of him that was afraid he wouldn’t like it when he got it, that he’d touch Geno’s cock and be grossed out or just unmoved. But no: the feeling of Geno’s cock in his hand, long and thick and hot, makes his brain short out. He wants that cock inside of him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

Now is not going to be that time. Not when they’re hurtling toward the edge this quickly. Geno’s kissing him in great gulps that make Sid's cock swell and jerk and drool. His pulse gets a little frantic, just a tiny kernel of anxiety that Geno won’t give him what he needs. But he shouldn’t have worried: he jerks his hips up, whining, and Geno slips his hand into Sid’s sweats and gets a hold of his cock.

Sid keens and throws his head back. Geno’s huge, strong hand wraps around his cock and makes him burn from his toes to his scalp. It’s not everything he wants—not what his body cries out for every time they do this—but it’s so much. He can’t keep it together. Geno’s sucking tingling stripes up his neck, and Sid is flying apart.

He wants to last. He really does. But he can feel the edge coming up. “Geno,” he pants out. “Geno, Geno, can I—”

“Yes, Sid. Good,” Geno rumbles into his neck, and Sid comes with a cry.

He feels like a snow globe turned upside down and shaken, a cloud of sparkling snow bursting out a city. He gasps and clings to Geno, breathes in that scent so thick he could drink it, and lets himself fall apart.

He doesn’t let himself knot. He maintains that level of control over himself. But the base of his cock throbs, his knot struggling to pop. To fill out Geno’s hand.

Geno milks him until Sid is whimpering. Then he gets his hand on his own cock, starts stripping it fast. Sit stares: it’s big and thick and red, and he has to keep swallowing hard as he looks down at it. At the precome pearling at its head. Sid tips his head up, asking for a kiss, and Geno takes his mouth and buries him in kisses as he groans and shoots hot and wet all over Sid’s chest.

Geno gathers him close afterward, mouth soft and warm on Sid’s. Sid feels like his entire head is made of fuzz. He takes his kisses and feels them warm him all the way through. “Soon?” he asks.

Geno doesn’t ask what he’s talking about. He pulls back to look at Sid, and Sid can tell from the hot look in his eyes that he knows. “Soon,” he says, the edge of a growl in his voice.

The word buzzes through Sid’s gut. He wants it. But more than that, he wants the way he feels right now: gliding along, knowing where they’re going, but Geno entirely in control along the way.

***

They have time to shower before Sid’s parents get there. It’s not going to help that much: there’s no way Sid’s parents won’t be able to smell the way they’re feeling about each other right now. But there was never much chance of that. That’s just wolf life. Sid had enough moments of horror when he hit puberty and realized what his parents smelled like to learn, like all wolves, to politely pretend not to notice a thing.

He’s nervous again when he hears their taxi stop in the driveway. That’s the unfortunate thing about kneeling: it can’t actually take away all of his anxiety going forward. To be fair, Sid wouldn’t want to spend all his life in the haze he feels on his knees. But he wouldn’t mind never feeling the anxiety that bites into him as he hears voices outside and footsteps on the walk.

Geno takes his hand as the door opens. Sid breathes in deep.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting. Maybe that everyone will hang back, stiff and awkward. As soon as the door opens, though, Sid gets hit with his parents’ scent, and it’s like the months fall away. The years, maybe. He’s a kid again, with his parents in front of him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to run into their arms.

They take him into their arms, all three of them smushed together and clinging. Sid can smell the relief in all of their scents. It’s hard on wolves to be apart like they have been this fall. Last year it was Sid’s first year in the NHL, and his parents made more of a point of coming down once a month or so, and this year…well, he thinks maybe none of them realized how different it would feel, not having that. It’s only occurring to him now, with his parents holding him again, how much it might have helped with this whole terrible fall to have his pack around him more often.

It’s the exact opposite of how he expected to feel, seeing them. He presses his face into each of their necks, breathing deep. When he pulls back at last, his mom’s eyes are red, and his dad leaves his hand on his shoulder for a few extra moments.

Taylor is behind them. Sid opens his arms.

She’s taller than she was in August, older-looking. But she’s still small enough for him to lift. She wraps her legs around his waist, and he presses his face into her hair and spins her around. “I haven’t seen you in _forever,_ ” she says.

“I know.” He’s aware of it so much more than he was five minutes ago. “I should have planned more.” He doesn’t think any of them will be making this mistake again anytime soon.

He feels like a different person when he lets Taylor down and stands up again. Like he’s taken a tiny step sideways and found himself in a totally different room than he thought he was in. He turns, and Geno’s still there: still glowing bright, his eyes warm on Sid. Sid feels himself smile in response. No choice about it, when Geno looks at him like that. “Everybody, this is Geno,” he says.

Geno shakes his parents’ hands. “Nice to meet you,” he says. He had Sid drill him on the phrase last night so that he would pronounce it correctly. They shake back, a little bit of uncertainty flashing in their faces. Sid bounces his weight between his feet, tension returning.

Geno turns to Taylor. “This Taylor?” he says, eyes wide in mock surprise. “No. Huge!”

Taylor giggles. “I’m ten!” she says.

“No.” Geno shakes his head. “Taylor small. Where Taylor?” he says, turning to Sid.

“It’s me, I’m right here!” Taylor says. Sid rolls his eyes at Geno over her head, grinning.

Geno kneels down next to her, and gives her an appraising look. “You goalie?” he asks, nodding, like it’s all adding up. “We play,” he says decisively.

Her face lights up. “Hockey?” She looks at Sid. “Can we? I brought my skates.”

“Sure,” Sid says. He’ll talk to Jim at the rink later.

It’s a game day, so the plan is to have a simple lunch at Sid’s and then part ways so that Sid and Geno can nap. “Simple” was the word his mom applied to the lunch when they were planning; nothing about it feels simple to Sid, except maybe putting out the food he got from his meal service. He feels like he’s sitting on a pincushion with both Geno and his parents in the same room.

His parents aren’t helping that much, either; the awkwardness Sid was afraid of when they came to the door has definitely surfaced. But Geno. Sid has been in so many meetings and conversations with him where Geno let other people lead; he hasn’t seen much of Geno putting himself forward in conversation, except when they’ve been alone. But now. Now that no one else is offering a lot of conversation—now that the air isn’t full of a buzz of speech he has no hope of following—Geno comes into his own.

He asks so many questions, for one thing. Enough that Sid starts to suspect he must have prepared them ahead of time, thinking ahead to what he’ll need to do to put Sid’s parents at their ease. “You live Cole Harbour,” Geno says, taking care with the syllables. “Nice?” And then he listens attentively as Sid’s parents go on about the elementary school and the hockey rinks and the modernization of the downtown.

It’s surprisingly effective. Sid’s parents aren’t exactly strong, silent types, but it’s hard to get them to talk this much. There’s no way Geno’s understanding three-quarters of what they’re saying, but he nods like he does, and sometimes even asks followup questions. There are only a couple of times when he waves his hand and says, “Me Russian, not know words,” and the magic of him is that Sid’s parents laugh along with him.

It’s one of the biggest glimpses Sid has gotten into what Geno is like without a language barrier. He is more than okay with Geno just the way he is, but he’s also a little excited, seeing him this way, for what it will be like when they speak each other’s languages better. For when they can have even more of each other than they do now.

He makes sure to pay attention his parents’ scents during lunch. He doesn’t want to assume that a good conversation means they’re completely on board with this man, this alpha, their alpha son is dating. But there are no obvious signs of alarm there. Whether or not they’re okay with it, they at least smell okay right now.

Taylor is loving it. Geno makes sure to ask her questions, too, and she goes on and on about her hockey season, her class at school, the backyard rink they’re working on getting smooth enough now that the weather is cold. As the meal goes on, she starts to get a starry look in her eyes that makes Sid think Steph Lemieux has some competition.

Sid’s parents and Taylor leave after an almost painless hour and a half, and Sid and Geno climb into bed for their naps. “Thank you,” Sid whispers against Geno’s cheek, and Geno nuzzles him and throws an arm over him for sleep.

***

They lose to the Islanders that night in regulation. Sid hates losing in front of his family—hates losing, period, but it’s worse when his parents are watching. He always feels like he’s letting them down.

He’s expecting his father’s critique when they meet up after the game. Sure enough: “Missed opportunity in the third,” his father says.

It’s nothing Sid can’t take. What’s he’s not anticipating is the way Geno steps up to his elbow right away. “Assist in the third,” Geno says, an edge of challenge in his voice. “Good assist.”

Sid can almost see his father surveying the landscape and adjusting. “Yes, of course,” he says. “Both assists were good.”

Sid waits a beat, to see if something else is going to happen. When it doesn’t, he says, “Thanks, Dad.”

They aren’t out to the team as a couple, of course, so Geno doesn’t come home with them. Sid drives his family back to their hotel. He expects his father to start with the game critique again as soon as they’re in the car, but he doesn’t; he sits quietly in the passenger seat.

Sid’s not sure what to make of that. He doesn’t mind the lack of critique; it’s usually less helpful than the feedback he gets from his coaches and his own tape review. He definitely doesn’t mind having Geno stand up for him. But he can’t help but wonder if this is going to spell trouble down the road.

***

Sid’s family comes to practice tomorrow. It’s a closed practice, which Sid knows is their favorite: the team is always a little more willing to socialize when they don’t have to worry about public boundaries.

Taylor loves it in particular. The guys who met her last year already adore her, and Sid’s hoping he can get some of them to stick around after practice for a few minutes to skate with her.

He mentions it to Geno as they’re walking into the rink. “Of course,” Geno says. “Talk Jim.”

“Jim? I don’t think we need to,” Sid says. Jim is the rink guy. They don’t need to check with him to stay on the ice for a few minutes after practice.

“No, yesterday,” Geno says. “Talk Jim. Say, Taylor skate, hour.”

Sid does a double take. “Wait, you talked to Jim yesterday to book an hour for Taylor to skate?”

Geno nods, and Sid stares at him for so long that he almost walks into a wall.

Geno has to pull him out of the way at the last minute. “Sid mad?” he asks.

“No.” Sid doesn’t know what his face is doing. All he knows is that he’s always been the person who looks out for and makes things happen for the people in his life, and it never occurred to him that he could find someone who would do the same thing for him and his people. “No, Geno, I—I’m really fucking happy.”

The way Geno looks at him—well, he shouldn’t look at him like that if he doesn’t want Sid to lean closer.

“Sid want team know?” Geno asks, teasing, his voice low.

“No,” Sid says, but he doesn’t move away. He stands there grinning like a loon, Geno grinning right back, until a footstep in the distance makes them jump apart.

It’s definitely a question, what to tell the team. Jordy already knows; that wasn’t really a choice, when Jordy has a wolf’s nose. Sid’s not worried that he’s going to tell other people. Jordy has a lot of practice keeping secrets. But Sid’s not sure he and Geno will do quite as good a job keeping this secret, especially when they’re traveling with the team. They might need to start telling people.

It’s a bigger question than Sid needs to answer right now. It’s time for practice; he just needs to skate with his team, do his best, play some hockey.

At the end of practice, he opens the door to the tunnel, and Taylor runs onto the ice, gear already strapped on. A bunch of guys are waiting to greet her, but she doesn’t stop to say hi: she strips the puck from one of them and skates down to score on the empty net.

“Fuck, she got _fast,_ ” Flower says next to Sid. “You said she’s only ten?”

“Eleven in March,” Sid says. He’s glad she hasn’t lost all the offensive skills he taught her. “Bet she can save more shots than you.”

“You’re on,” Flower says, smiling broadly.

It feels almost like a party. They’re coming off two losses, and practice was intense, but Taylor on the ice lightens everyone’s mood. Guys try their silliest trick shots on her, cheering when she stops other people, acting all sad when she stops them. Acting astonished when they score on her, marveling that they got one past _Taylor Crosby._

Taylor is beaming. Sid loves this team.

He skates over to stand with his parents after a while. They didn’t bring their skates with them and seem content to watch Taylor’s fun. “She’s getting really good,” Sid says.

“We’re working on her blocker side,” his dad says.

“Geno seems good with her,” his mom says, gesturing at where Geno’s giving Taylor a piggyback ride around the rink.

Sid is suddenly aware that he’s alone with them, for the first time since they got here yesterday. “Yeah. He’s really good with kids.”

“Not a typical alpha, maybe,” his mom says.

Sid stiffens immediately. He gets what they’re trying to do. What they’re trying to offer him. “Actually, he’s a very typical alpha,” he says through a jaw that’s suddenly tight.

“He doesn’t seem to mind you wearing a letter on your chest,” his dad says, his tone mild.

_That’s because he puts me on my knees in our bedroom at night._ The thought flashes into Sid’s head unbidden, and he feels his face get hot. “Hey, you guys haven’t met Jordy yet,” he says, waving Jordy down.

Jordy seems surprised, but it’s a pretty normal thing, having your family meet the other wolves on the team. Sid stands off to the side and tries not to let the aggravation sit too obviously on him while his parents shake Jordy’s hand.

“So nice to meet you,” his mom says, all smiles now that she’s talking to a stranger. “I hope Sid is taking good care of you.”

It could be an innocent-enough question. But something in her tone makes Sid suspect it isn’t. His teeth grind together again.

Jordy doesn’t sound like he’s picking up on anything. “Yeah, he’s great,” he says. “Always tough to be away from pack, but I couldn’t ask for a better team. Sid and Geno have both been great role models for me.”

His parents’ smiles go a little fixed. Sid looks away.

Jordy skates away with an invitation to go running with the family tomorrow. “Dude,” he says to Sid a couple minutes later, when Sid joins him back out on the ice. “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sid says. He’s trying to make eye contact with Geno, signal that they should wrap up soon. “Just family stuff.”

“Do you actually want me to come tomorrow? Because I can be busy or whatever.”

“No,” Sid says. He manages to catch Geno’s eye. “At this point, I don’t think you’re gonna make it worse.”

***

He manages not to be alone with his parents the rest of the day. It’s cowardly, he knows, but the thing is, he doesn’t _want_ this fight. He wants to enjoy his family’s visit without having to talk about him being an alpha or Geno being an alpha or what that means for either of them. He wants his parents not to care—but if he can’t have that, at least he can avoid the conversation.

That seems to be possible, as long as there’s at least one other person present. Sid makes sure either Taylor or Geno is there at all times, and the conversation stays on pleasantries and hockey.

Sid knows Geno isn’t fooled by how friendly and polite everyone is being. He keeps a hand on Sid’s knee under the tablecloth the whole time they’re at dinner, and he keeps shooting Sid questioning glances that Sid just shakes his head at.

This time they don’t have to pretend Geno is leaving separately. They drop Sid’s family at the hotel and go back to Sid’s. As soon as the door is shut behind them, Geno puts his hands on either sides of Sid’s shoulders. “What wrong?” he asks.

Sid feels his body sag a little. He can smell Geno: the cloth of his shirt and the salt of his skin and the faint traces of spaghetti sauce from the Italian restaurant. Warm smells. Safe. “Nothing new,” he says. “My parents don’t understand.”

Geno nods slowly and pulls Sid into his arms. “Hard,” he says. “They sad. They you pack, but. You my pack.”

Sid hadn’t thought of it that way before, that maybe what’s bothering his parents is the idea that Sid’s moving towards leaving their pack. That could have been true whoever he was dating, but it’s extra true now that he’s dating an alpha. Sid’s never acted as an alpha toward his parents—that’s not really something wolf kids do, at least not when they’re kids—but he could have taken that role someday if he’d wanted to. Either formally, by following the rituals, or casually, by starting a pack of his own that his parents are de facto a part of. If Geno is the head of his pack, that’s all a lot more complicated and a lot less automatic.

It’s a lot to think about. A lot of thoughts about the future Sid hadn’t considered yet. But right now he’s feeling pretty caught on one thing. “I’m your pack?” he says in a low voice.

Geno pulls Sid’s head back to make eye contact. “Want pack?” he asks.

Sid nods, feeling the heat of Geno’s eyes all the way down to his toes.

They don’t fuck that night. Sid thinks they might—longs for it, with every beat of his pulse, but Geno just pins him to the bed and kisses him fiercely until Sid is panting and twitching up against him. He comes almost by surprise, his cock skidding against the skin of Geno’s belly, and Geno groans and follows suit. Afterward, Sid lies there flushed and yearning, the desire pounding its way through him. Wanting Geno to just fucking _fuck_ him already.

He feels the ache of it in every cell of his body. At the same time, he still doesn’t mind. Knowing Geno is controlling the pace, knowing Geno will be the one to decide when it’s time—that’s bigger than the longing. That’s the warmth that envelops him as he rolls into Geno’s side, sticky and limp.

That’s the thing that his parents don’t understand. The thing Sid doesn’t know how he’d ever explain to them. That yeah, Sid can be in charge of things when he wants. He’s good at it, he even likes it. But bowing to Geno’s will, kneeling to him, handing over that power to him—that’s so much better than trying to be in charge of things all the time himself. And Sid can have both. That’s the crazy thing: he can give Geno that power _and_ keep it for himself.

Sid has started to see, this past week, how that could be true. But he has no idea how he’d ever make anyone else understand it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual last chapter! Hope you all enjoy. :D
> 
> (Warnings for various kinds of prejudice, some fictional and some not, and for difficult coming-out conversations.)

They get up early the next morning to go running. It’s a real day off—no practice or meetings or tape review—and Sid doesn’t want to think about the little edge of tension between him and his parents. He just wants to run, the whole day as free and open as the field before them.

They meet up at the conservation land where Sid usually does his moon runs. He hasn’t been there much in the daytime. It’s not the full moon—they’ll be on the road for that, next week—and he doesn’t usually take the time to run as a wolf at other times during the season. Coming to a field in the daytime with the intention to shift makes him feel like it’s the off-season, like he’s at home in Cole Harbour where he and Taylor spent long summer days running from dawn to dusk.

Everyone goes to a grove to strip. This is something Sid was never able to explain to his friends, back when he was little and had a couple of human friends he told about wolf stuff: that it’s not awkward for people of all ages or genders or whatever to strip down together when it’s for the purpose of shifting to wolf. It’s like a hockey team changing in a room together. The nakedness isn’t important; all anyone’s thinking about is what comes next.

The shift. Sid feels it take him like a rush. It’s fast today: sometimes he has to concentrate a little harder to give up his human form. But today his wolf body is chomping at the bit to take over. He falls forward onto paws and feels that sense of rightness that always comes with the change. The knowledge that this, too, is his body.

Next to him, Taylor’s shifted already; she’s young enough that not shifting is still sometimes a problem for her, though he knows she’s gotten way better at it over the past few years. Her wolf is still small, a cub still growing into its limbs. She jumps around and yips in excitement as the rest of them finish undressing and changing.

Geno’s pulling off his socks on Sid’s other side. Sid didn’t get to watch him shift at the full moon. It’s a pretty amazing thing to see, no matter how many times you’ve seen it, and he keeps his eyes on Geno as the fur ripples over his body. That quick instant where everything hangs in the air, where the body has no solid shape at all, and then it settles again, into something new. Something right.

Geno’s scent changes, too, though not as dramatically. It’s a sharpening, mostly. Like the dull surface has been scraped off to reveal the bright colors beneath. Geno, huge and shaggy in the sunlight, hitting Sid’s nose like a wind carrying all the scents of an autumn forest bursting with life.

Geno leans in, nuzzles his jaw against Sid’s and sends a thrill through Sid’s fur. Then he rears back and lets off a short howl. He takes off running, and Taylor gives a yip and runs after him. Sid yowls, his blood rising, and follows.

It’s a full-group romp. Better than the full moon: Sid was so tense that night, checking at every moment that he had Geno’s attention on him. Now he knows he has it, whether Geno’s focused on him that moment or not. Geno is _his_. It sets Sid free to run with his parents, with Taylor, with Jordy, to run free and yip at the sky.

Taylor’s the one who really transforms the experience, though. Her energy grabs them all, just like on the ice. There aren’t any family tensions when she’s dancing and jumping in the middle of them. Jordy doesn’t hang back out of shyness when she tries to get him to come wrestle her. She and Geno start a game of tag, and soon they’re all playing, no rules, everyone running after each other in the bright December sun.

It’s the best Sid’s felt as a wolf in months. In years, maybe. He has all his people around him now, more than he’s ever had before. He feels like he could run forever.

They stick to the field at first. But the woods are full of fascinating smells, and Sid wants to explore. He yips an invitation to Geno, and they run deep into shadowed glades. They sniffs at tracks and scent-marks and rich rotting earth just starting to freeze over. They mouth at branches and roll across the frozen ground, egging each other on.

It’s in one of those dark archways under the trees that the mood changes. Sid lifts his head from sniffing a rotting log, and there’s Geno, standing in the space between two trees, watching him. Not sniffing at the ground. Not turning to track the birds. Not taking his eyes or his attention off of Sid.

Sid takes in a breath of changed air. The scents of the forest are receding now. All he can smell is Geno.

Geno pads closer. The air around them grows more charged. Geno looks amazing, majestic in the shadows of the forest, and he smells like every good thing Sid’s ever known. Sid bends his front legs and sinks before him.

Geno bends lower and touches his muzzle to Sid’s. He rubs against him, nose to cheek. Sid pushes into it, dreamy and grateful. Geno rewards him with another cheek rub, this one pressing their whole faces together. Then he goes farther, pushing his whole body along Sid’s in one long shivery stroke from nose to tail.

Sid swoons. He’s never felt sexual desire in wolf form. He doesn’t think anyone does. But at this moment, Geno’s touch tingling along his entire body, he’s not sure where sexual desire ends and this kind of feeling begins.

He wants to be owned. To be possessed. He wants to break himself open and give every single part to Geno.

He rolls onto his back and whines, begging. Showing his belly to Geno. Geno runs his nose along it, hot breath rustling the thin fur. Accepting Sid’s submission. He holds his muzzle near Sid’s so that Sid can lick it, and Sid does, running his tongue eagerly over the rough fur of Geno’s jaw.

Geno rumbles in pleasure. He buries his nose in the thick fur of Sid’s neck. Sid shudders in pleasure. He’s being good for Geno. Geno is pleased with him. That means that maybe, Geno will—

Geno bares his teeth and rakes them through Sid’s fur. Sid’s whole body quivers. His breath is coming in pants. He arches his back, trying to expose himself even more, to beg Geno to hurry up and do it. Geno’s teeth touch the surface of Sid’s skin—not the points of them yet, but the flats of them. A tease. A promise. And then—

Then, Geno’s mouth is gone.

Sid isn’t sure what happens at first. Only that Geno’s teeth aren’t on his neck anymore. Geno’s up, standing. He’s looking at someone. Someone who—

Sid breathes in. His parents.

Their scent hits him like a clod of frozen earth to the face. He whines, confused. He needs to—he can’t think. His thoughts are caught in some murky space that he can’t quite get out of. Get up, maybe. Shake himself off. Do something—but before he can, Geno places a forepaw on his belly, looks straight at his parents, and growls a challenge.

The sound is pure alpha. It shivers all the way through Sid’s body and makes him go wonderfully limp, shoving him all the way deep into that haze he was only creeping towards before. He has no idea what happens to his parents, because he doesn’t care. Geno—Geno is what matters. Geno is _claiming_ him.

Geno leans down, still growling a little. The rumble shakes through Sid and makes him whimper with pleasure. It hums through his brain.

Geno’s nose caresses his neck again. And then, his open mouth, the points of his teeth set against Sid’s skin. He bites.

Not hard. Not enough to be a full mating bite. But it washes over Sid’s body like a wave, and he feels himself cross over a threshold. They were climbing something before, and now they’re at the top, safety harnesses off. Time to start the fall.

He’s not capable of a whole lot of thought right now. But in the one corner of his mind that’s still coherent, he gets it, suddenly, why Geno made them wait. Because now, _now_ it’s urgent, in a way that all their desire for each other hadn’t made it before. They’re going to leave this field, and—not this very moment, but today, maybe even this afternoon—Geno’s going to fuck him.

Geno lets go of his neck. It hardly matters: Sid still feels the urgency buzzing through him. The inevitability of where they’re going. Like there’s a rope tied to both of their chests, pulling them forward.

It does clear his head a little, though. He remembers—his parents.

Shit. They were here, and they saw…shit. The wolf isn’t good at embarrassment, but Sid is still capable of it, even in this body. And even the wolf knows something about moments that should be private.

Sid should probably go talk to them. He gets to his feet. Geno watches him, golden eyes fixed, but he doesn’t interfere. What’s happening between them isn’t going to be resolved in these forms. Sid rubs up against him, just for the pleasure of it—warm breath, the scent of turning leaves in a swift fall breeze—and takes off running.

He heads back to the grove where they left their clothing. He doesn’t know if his parents will be there, but that’s where they usually go, when they get tired of running before their more energetic children. And today, after what they just saw, Sid has a very strong feeling they’ll have decided to wrap things up.

Sure enough, they’re standing in the grove, already in their clothes and coats and gloves. They don’t look surprised to see him. Sid goes to his clothing and shifts back, hurrying to cover up his suddenly freezing skin as quickly as possible. Human bodies don’t handle cold as well as wolves.

It’s a little awkward, his parents waiting while he straightens his clothes and laces his boots. He turns towards them when he’s done. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “What you just saw—”

“Sid.” His mom cuts him off. “We’re sorry we saw that.”

“Okay,” he says. That’s—good, probably. If they’re sorry.

“At the same time, we’re not sorry. It’s good that we know this is happening.” She shoots a quick glance at Sid’s dad. “You know we’ve never interfered in your love life.”

“I know,” Sid says. “I appreciate it.”

“We’ve always admired the way you’ve been focused on hockey,” his mom says. “It’s clear how much of a priority that is for you. I don’t want to tell you this will be bad for your hockey career—”

“Though it will be,” his dad says. His voice is a surprise. It’s charged with something—anger?

“It could be,” his mom says. “But the important thing about hockey is that it makes you happy. We’ve always tried to make you believe that. It’s wonderful that you’ve had this much success, but that’s not as important as you being happy. And we’re just worried, this relationship—we just want to make sure it’s not going to interfere with you having a happy life.”

“It won’t,” Sid says, his throat tight.

He can feel the skepticism in the pause that follows. He can smell it, in their scent, harsh at the back of his throat.

“I’m sure it feels like that now,” his mom says cautiously. “And it’s important to enjoy yourself, especially at your age. But, honey. Bonding, mating—that’s not something you can easily undo. That’s something you want to wait and do with the right person.”

“And you don’t think Geno could be that person.” Sid can feel the flatness in his own voice.

“That’s not what we’re saying,” she says. “We’re just telling you to take your time.”

It’s not terrible advice. If he thought that was all they were saying, he might even consider it. “Which is it?” he asks. “That he’s a man, or that he’s an alpha?”

The tension in the clearing ratchets up a notch. His mom darts another look at his dad. “I don’t think either of us wants to buy into stereotypes about alphas and omegas—”

“So it’s the alpha thing.” Sid makes himself take a deep breath. It won’t help the situation if he gets mad at them. “It took me a while to get my head around that, too. He’s definitely not who I thought I’d end up with.”

“No, I’d imagine not,” his mom says with a faint smile.

“I just wish I could make you understand how—how right this feels to me.” Sid’s cheeks are heating up. He doesn’t want to say this stuff out loud to his parents, but he wants them to understand. “I fought it for a long time. And now that I have it, it’s like—I should have let myself have it sooner. It’s so much better than anything I imagined for myself. It’s out of left field, I know that, but I wish you could understand how good it feels to—”

“That’s because he’s fucking brainwashed you!” his dad explodes.

Sid blinks at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Troy,” his mom hisses.

Sid feels like he skipped a couple of steps on the stairs. “You—think Geno brainwashed me?” It’s so absurd he almost wants to laugh.

“Of course we don’t think that,” his mom says. “Do we, Troy?”

“All I know is I had a son leave home in September as an alpha,” his dad says. “Someone who was going to be a leader in the league. Make a difference. And now I get here and find that he’s bowing to another alpha, like he’s nothing but a sniveling fucking—”

“You shut your goddamn mouth!” Sid shouts, taking a step forward, just as his mom jumps between them and yells, “Troy!”

It’s all Sid can do to not barrel through her and plant his fists in his dad’s face like he deserves. Instead he stays put, shaking, his hands clenched at his sides. His dad is doing the same thing, face red with anger.

His mom puts her hands up to keep them apart. “We’re not trying to make your choices for you,” she says, her voice soothing. “We’re just saying, you should take some time to consider your options. If you want to date another man, if that’s important to you, there are other choices that might make you happier. Maybe a beta, like Jordy—”

“Jordy?” Sid frowns. “What the fuck are you talking about?

“We just want you to consider it,” his mom says, while his dad says, “He’d sure as hell be an improvement over that manipulating foreign son of a—”

“Stop,” Sid growls, and they both fall silent. The alpha rumble in his voice is still ringing through the grove. Sid breathes deep, feeling the rumble low in his belly. “Here’s how it’s going to go.”

His parents stare at him.

“You will stop talking about this,” Sid says. “You will get in the car and drive back to the hotel. You will not let me see your faces again today. When I see you again, you will not question the validity of my relationship. You will not insult Geno where either of us can hear you. And you will never, ever tell me again that I’m not an alpha.”

His parents are still staring, wide-eyed silent. Sid has never unleashed his alpha power on them before. He’s never wanted to before this very moment. He might feel a little mad about it later, but right now there’s no room for anything but anger in him. He feels like he could take the world between his fists and crush it into dust.

His dad clears his throat. Shifts his weight. Sid tracks the movement with his eyes, but all his dad says is, “Keys?”

Sid fishes them out of his pocket and tosses them. His mom starts to turn away, then turns back and says, “What about Taylor?”

“I’ll take care of her,” Sid says. “We’ll drop her off later.”

She nods and turns away. Sid watches as they get in the car and drive down the street. Then he turns, strips his clothes again, shifts, and pours everything inside of him into the run.

***

He’s still angry an hour later when they’re bringing Taylor to the hotel. It’s a good thing no one’s asking him questions. Well, Taylor did; Sid had to come up with something vague to say as an explanation for their parents’ absence. He knows she’s not reassured all the way, and he feels bad about it, but there’s not a lot he can do. What’s he going to say, _sorry, just pissed off because our parents are bigots who told me I’m a sniveling weakling for kneeling to another alpha_?

Just thinking about it makes his anger surge. He’s going to have to leave Taylor with those people.

She’ll be fine. That’s what he tells himself while Jordy drives them to the hotel, and then again when he hugs Taylor goodbye and he and Geno go to his car. They’re Taylor’s parents, and she’s not the one who’s going against their expectations of her. But all his instincts are screaming at him that he’s leaving the most vulnerable member of his pack in danger.

It’s all he can think about on the drive back to his place. He should have made Geno drive; he can barely see the road.

Geno puts his hand on Sid’s knee in the car. He obviously knows something’s wrong, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t ask when they get to the house, either. He just hangs up his coat, walks up to Sid, and says, “Here. You bite.”

Sid looks at him, startled. Geno is holding out his arm, biceps forward, like he’s offering it to Sid. “What?”

Geno gestures at Sid. “You angry.” He gestures at his biceps. “You bite.”

Sid stares at him. Then he opens his mouth, and what comes out is a strangled laugh. “Fuck,” he says, slumping forward so that his forehead is on Geno’s chest.

Geno slides his hands up Sid’s sides. “What happen?”

“My parents,” Sid says. “They’re assholes.”

Geno’s fingers brush lightly against Sid’s back. He knows that word, of course; you don’t play on a hockey team without learning all the swears. “What do?” Geno asks.

“They…” Sid clenches his fingers in Geno’s shirt. He can still feel all the anger churning in his gut. “They said some shit.”

“Yeah?”

Sid doesn’t want to say. He’s realizing right now that he doesn’t want to say. In part because he doesn’t want to hurt Geno. But also, if he says it, it will become real. It’s embarrassing, in some way he doesn’t quite understand. “Just—some shit,” he says. “You know.”

“Sid.” Geno gets his finger under Sid’s chin, lifts lightly. “What say?”

Sid looks up, helpless at the look in Geno’s eyes. He could still say no; he knows that if he said he didn’t want to talk about it, Geno wouldn’t press it. But the idea of shoving it back down like that is even worse. It would eat Sid up inside. Carve little holes in his gut. “They…don’t like that you’re an alpha,” he says. “They think it’s bad for me. They—they think you’re making me do things. Things I don’t want.”

Geno’s face darkens. He looks off to the side, toward the door, and Sid knows what must be running through his mind: the urge to run out the door and teach Sid’s parents a lesson they won’t forget. Sid knows, because he’s feeling the same thing.

When Geno looks back, though, he has his face under control, and his hands on Sid’s shoulders are gentle, even if there’s still a strain of fire and ash in his scent. “What you say?”

Sid pushes out a breath. “I told them to shut the fuck up,” he says. “I—well. I used my alpha voice.”

Geno’s face lights up. Like, he practically starts glowing. “Sid! So good!”

Sid laughs, half in surprise. “Yeah? You think so?”

“You show strong,” Geno says, looking at him warmly.

Sid hadn’t really thought about it that way. He was trying to get his parents to shut up—and it worked; he remembers it with a vicious twist of satisfaction—but yeah. He supposes he was also trying to show them how wrong they were about him. About both of them. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I did.”

“They see?” Geno asks.

Sid nods. “They, uh. I don’t know if they—but they left. They listened to me. They know where I stand now.” He meets Geno’s eyes, anger pulsing in his gut again. “They won’t say those things about you again.”

Geno grins at him. “Alpha voice,” he says, touching Sid on the jaw.

“Really?” He didn’t realize. He touches his throat, where he can still feel the slight roughness of it.

Geno gives him a look, slow, through his eyelashes. “Alpha voice for me,” he says, his voice dropping into a purr.

Sid’s breath hitches. “You—like that?”

Geno nods. Leans in, his nose tracing lightly up Sid’s cheek. “Alpha voice because mine,” he breathes against Sid’s ear.

Sid shivers. Everything he felt in the woods is racing back towards him, this time with an overlay of heat that makes his eyes sink closed. He inhales the small space between their bodies, lets it fill his lungs with smoke.

Geno’s nose drifts down to Sid’s neck and draws a tingly line down his tendon. “Sid,” he rumbles. Sid shudders, head lolling back.

Geno pulls back a little and gets his shirt off. Sid stares dazedly at the smooth white slopes of his pecs, the darkness of his nipples and the fuzz of hair in the center. “Here,” Geno says, offering Sid his bare arm. “Bite?”

Sid’s gaze skitters up to meet Geno’s. Geno’s looking back at him, serious. Like he knows what he’s offering.

Sid leans in, slowly, to press his mouth against the smooth bulge of muscle. He noses along the skin, licks it. It’s hot beneath his tongue. He breathes against it for a moment, feeling his own heart beating, then sets his teeth against it.

He has a moment of panic about how hard he should bite. He’s never done this before. Will probably never do it again, if this goes the way it’s supposed to. He digs in just a little bit—not a real bite yet—and just that little bit of pressure sends a wave of hunger crashing into him. He moans against the skin and sinks his teeth in deeper.

Geno gasps, breath catching. Sid holds on for a moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, then lets go, panting. He can see his own teethmarks, two semicircles of white slowly turning red. He meets Geno’s eyes and sees them wide and wild.

Geno gets his hands on Sid’s shoulders and shoves him back against the wall. Sid hits with a moan. Geno crowds him close, breath hot on his jaw, and sucks a line down his neck. “I bite?” he asks, voice rough as gravel, cascading down through Sid’s guts. 

Sid feels like his skin is going to burst right off of him. “ _Please_ ,” he whispers.

The first impact of teeth on his neck rips a cry out of him. The world is fogging over, red haze in front of his eyes. Geno digs his teeth in, deeper than Sid went on his arm, bruisingly hard, but it doesn’t feel like pain. It feels like heat, like impact, rolling through his whole body, taking his lungs and his stomach and his liver and intestines and threading all the way through his nervous system. Seizing his entire body.

Sid goes limp. Geno’s there to catch him, voice rumbling in his ear, tongue licking over the bite marks on his neck. Sid swoons against him, and Geno picks him up and takes him to the bedroom.

Lying in bed, with Geno over him. Geno’s body is so hot against his, acres of bare skin sliding together as they nuzzle and lick and suck at each other. Hundreds of secret spots where their bodies can come into perfect contact. Sid feels like he’s melting into a pool of desire. He feels like he’s finally been broken open, stale surface torn off, and finally, finally, Geno will be able to get inside.

Geno’s mouth leaves a trail of fire over his body. His hands tease Sid’s cock and pull moans out of him. Then he gets a grip on Sid’s ass, thumbs nudging up into his crack, and Sid’s whole body contracts in a pulse of need.

“Please,” he says, only half aware he’s talking. “Oh, please.”

Geno presses a searing kiss to his mouth. And then, yes, _yes_ , cool slick fingers pressing just where they need to go: right down deep into the core of him.

Sid bucks up as those fingers light up sparkles inside of him. Geno growls and pins him to the mattress. That’s even better: the pressure of Geno’s body on top of him, and the pressure of Geno’s fingers inside of him. Pushing into him from all angles.

Geno’s fingers work inside of him until Sid is sobbing for air. The feeling of it, that pressure deep inside of him, it’s a deep burning sensation that spreads to the tips of his fingers. It’s building around him, like a wave lifting him up, higher and higher until he has no choice but to—

“No,” Geno growls, pushing up and looking Sid in the face. “ _No come_.”

Sid cries out, shuddering. The words clamp around him like iron bars, stopping his orgasm but doing nothing to stop the pleasure. It surges through him, the stroke of Geno’s fingers deep in his ass, the hot drops of Geno’s sweat dripping onto him, the nerve-frying jabs of their cocks glancing off each other as Geno grinds down. And then Geno lifts his knees and pushes his cock inside.

He does it in one smooth thrust, slow and powerful and inexorable. Sid feels it move through him, pushing him from one world into another. Geno is filling him up, huge, rock-hard, this space that had been empty and is now finally, finally full. With _Geno_.

Geno is gasping above him, head hanging down like he’s winded. He leans down and kisses Sid’s mouth, hungry and wet. Sid clenches down on his cock, and Geno lets out this low noise like he’s been stabbed. He pulls out and thrusts in again, making Sid whine at the sensation.

Geno does it again and again, picking up speed, each thrust lighting up Sid’s whole body. Sid can barely take it. He never imagined. Never knew it could feel like this. Like he’s being turned inside out, rocked through with bright pulses of pleasure.

“Sid, Sid,” Geno moans, and Sid shoves up to meet his thrusts, open-mouthed and strangling. Geno gets his hands, presses them down against the mattress, and strips the last bit of control from him. Sid is out of control, flying apart, shot through with those blazing bursts of fire, and he can’t—he can’t possibly—he’s gonna—

“Now,” Geno growls, his cock pounding in faster and faster. “Now, come.”

Sid shatters.

He bursts into a million pieces, a cloud of bright colors spinning through the air, on and on and on. Flying through the bright glowing heart of Geno.

It takes a long time for him to come back to himself. When he does, the glow receding, he’s on his side. Geno is snugged up behind him, holding him tight. Holding him in some kind of slow wash of pleasure.

Geno’s hand is on Sid’s cock. That’s the first thing that slowly filters through Sid’s consciousness. And then, the knowledge of Geno’s cock, still in his ass, making him feel even fuller than he did before. A perfect pressure banishing any thoughts of emptiness. Geno’s knot.

Geno’s knot, and Sid’s. That’s what Geno has in his hand: that’s what’s making pleasure shimmer over his body. “Oh,” he says, startling. He wasn’t supposed to do that—

“Sh,” Geno says, tightening his arm around Sid. “Is good. Knot good.”

Sid settles a little. He remembers: their teeth sinking into each other’s skin. That means it’s okay. The knots are just a consequence. They were already—they’re already mates.

 _Mates_. The thought shivers all through Sid’s body, making his cock pulse in Geno’s hand. Geno massages his knot and makes Sid moan. “Yes, Sid,” he whispers. “Good.”

“Yes,” Sid says. He sounds drunk. He _feels_ drunk. “Yeah, Geno, I—yes.”

“Sid mine,” Geno whispers against his neck, licking at the edge of the mating bite, and Sid shudders and closes his eyes again. He nestles back into Geno’s arms and clenches his ass around the knot.

***

He must fall asleep, because when he wakes up, it’s getting dark out, and Geno’s knot isn’t in his ass anymore. Geno’s still spooned up behind him, but he’s wearing sweats, and Sid’s chest feels tacky and clean. There’s a smell of hot food coming from downstairs, mingling with the sex-smell on the sheets. The smell of Geno.

Sid rolls over in Geno’s arms, bringing them face to face. Geno’s awake, smiling at him. “Hi.”

He looks so good. Sid has no control over the smile that spreads across his face in return. “Hi.” He leans in and nuzzles at Geno’s jaw. His scent is quiet and warm and rich, like the sun hitting a field of tall grass full of humming bees. The smell of contentment, overlaid with chicken and butter and garlic. “You cooked?”

Geno shakes his head. “I’m call.” He makes a phone gesture, then touches his fingers lightly to the side of Sid’s neck. “No want leave Sid.”

His finger brushes the edge of the mating bite. Sid flushes with pleasure. His body feels different than it did this morning. He feels like—like something new has grown inside of him while he slept, like a tree putting out roots. He can feel them quivering just under his skin.

He can feel more than that. He can feel—he startles at the realization. He can feel Geno, just a very faint echo of him, like the sound of Geno’s voice is inside his mind. The almost inaudible thrum of a heartbeat that isn’t his.

He looks at Geno, eyes going wide. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe this isn’t what he thinks it is, but—“I think we’re bonding,” he blurts out.

Geno looks delighted. “You feel? I’m feel.” He takes Sid’s hand and puts it on his heart, and Sid can feel it. This heartbeat is the same one that’s inside his head.

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against Geno’s chest. This isn’t a surprise. This is what’s supposed to happen after everything they did, after the way their bodies have been driving towards each other for months. But that’s just intellectual knowledge, probability. Actually feeling it—a piece of Geno inside of him, as much a part of his body as his own heartbeat, something no one can take away—

“Hey, sh.” Geno lifts Sid’s face and kisses the salt from the corners of his eyes. “Okay?”

Sid nods. “Very okay.” It’s true—he is. He’s _happy._ But also, at the same time…

“Sad?” Geno says softly.

Sid lets out a long breath. This was what his parents warned him against, just this morning. “What if they’re never okay with it?”

Geno looks at him sorrowfully, hand on Sid’s jaw. “You…wish not?” he says, gesturing between himself and Sid.

“What? _No._ ” Sid puts his hands on either side of Geno’s face and presses their foreheads together. “Never.” He wouldn’t give Geno up for anything. He just wishes people like his parents wouldn’t look at them like they’re something that shouldn’t exist.

He can still feel his parents’ words from this morning, lodged in his chest. But also… “Fuck them,” he growls, rolling on top of Geno and pinning his hands. “I’m an alpha, and I’m going to submit to whoever the fuck I want to.”

Geno looks delighted. “ _Me,_ ” he says.

“That’s right,” Sid says, and Geno flips them, pressing Sid to the pillow with his kisses.

They quiet after a while, Geno lying on top of Sid with his nose pressed into the hinge of Sid’s jaw. He murmurs something into Sid’s skin, the liquid sounds of Russian.

“Mm?” Sid says.

Geno breathes hot on Sid’s skin. “Love,” he says, a puff of air.

Sid twists to look at his face. Geno looks back at him, eyes bright, a little shy. Sid can feel his heartbeat in his tongue. “Teach me how to say it,” he says.

Geno teaches him. Sid shapes his tongue around the strange syllables. “ _Ya lyublyu tyebya,_ ” he says to Geno, then whispers it again in his ear. “ _Ya lyublyu tyebya._ ”

Geno’s scent is warm as the sun setting fire to the crackling leaves. “ _Ya tozhe,_ ” he whispers back, and Sid knows exactly what he means.

***

***

They go to breakfast with Sid’s parents the next day. Sid sets it up over text before they go to bed that night. He’s still not entirely prepared for the sight of his parents walking through the hotel lobby towards them.

He’s not holding Geno’s hand, of course. They’re out in public in Pittsburgh. But he can feel the faint hum of Geno in his mind, and it helps.

They have a plan for this. Geno pulls Taylor aside to talk about Christmas presents for Sid. And Sid takes his parents back to their hotel room to talk.

It’s tense, being in a room together. Sid knows his parents feel about hotel rooms the way he does: it’s awful, trying to feel at home somewhere so many people people have slept and left their scents. But he doesn’t want the population of Pittsburgh overhearing this.

Sid makes sure to be the first one to talk. “I want to make sure we’re going to be okay to spend this hour together,” he says.

His parents smell of a combination of distress and outrage. “I think an apology is called for,” his dad says.

His tone makes it clear who he thinks the apology would be coming from. “No,” Sid says, “it’s not.”

His father opens his mouth, but his mom puts her hand on his arm. “Let’s hear what Sidney has to say.”

Sid reaches for his anger. Uses it to steady himself. “You’ve already heard it,” he says. “I’m with Geno, and I’m staying with Geno. I know you might not like it, but it’s not something anyone can change at this point.”

He gives that last phrase some subtle emphasis and pauses for a minute to let them take in what he’s saying. They both have noses; it’s not going to be a secret from them from them for long.

“What I said yesterday still stands,” he says, before they can recover enough to say anything. “I will not accept any challenges to the validity of my relationship. If you ever have any specific concerns that don’t have to do with our dynamics or our genders, I’ll hear them. But if you object to our relationship itself, you can keep that to yourselves. I don’t want to hear it.”

He’s not using his alpha voice. He thought a lot about what to say, and he decided the alpha voice would be counterproductive. He softens his voice even further for the next part. “I do want to keep you in my life, though. I want to hear your advice on other things. You guys are really important to me. And I want you to get to know Geno. I know that might be hard at first, but I hope you’ll give it a shot. He’s really—he’s really wonderful.”

His voice breaks a little on the last part. He sees his mom’s face soften.

His dad seems disgruntled but deflated. Sid was hoping that would happen if he presented him with a fait accompli. “I can’t say I love the way you’ve gone about this,” his dad says.

Sid nods. There’s a part of him that cries out in distress at his father’s disapproval. Another part that wants to put him in his place. “I’m sorry for upsetting you guys,” he says carefully. “I wish it hadn’t happened like that.”

It’s not really an apology, properly speaking. But his dad still nods, like he’s won something. “And I still think it will cause—”

He stops when Sid takes a sharp step back. “I told you,” Sid says, holding his gaze. “If you have anything negative to say about my relationship, I’m leaving.”

Anger sparks in his dad’s eyes. He stares at Sid, jaw working.

“You don’t have to come to breakfast,” Sid says. “We can go our separate ways and try again at Christmas. But I hope you’ll join us.”

For a moment he thinks his dad will say no, that they’re leaving. But then his mom steps forward. “Of course we’ll come,” she says.

***

By the time breakfast is over, Sid’s shoulders ache from clenching them. But at least they made it through. He doesn’t regret trying to have the breakfast, but—wow.

He collapses into the car. Geno sits down in the driver’s seat, and Sid leans back against him.

Geno gets a hand up and starts rubbing at his shoulder. “Okay?” he asks.

Sid makes a face, even though Geno can’t see it. Geno doesn’t need to be told that he’s not okay. He’s sure his scent is saying enough. “I don’t know if they’ll ever stop thinking what they’re thinking. But at least they’re not saying it out loud.”

Geno rests his chin on Sid’s shoulder, offering wordless comfort. 

They drive back to Sid’s in silence, their hands clasped between the seats. Sid can feel the bond humming in the back of his mind. It will take a long time before it’s full developed, he knows. But it’s noticeable already: the sure and steady feeling of Geno inside him. Sid pokes at it with his mind, feeling out the shape of it, thrilling when Geno pulses back a little more strongly in response.

This is just the beginning. Sid can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like a few months from now. He feels like there’s a whole new path laid out before his feet, unknown landscapes around every bend.

They get to Sid’s place, and Geno parks in the driveway. Sid looks over to the main house to catch a glimpse of Mario working in his first-floor office.

He looks at the clock: still some time before they have to leave for practice. “Hey, go on in without me, okay?” he says to Geno. “I’m going to talk to Mario for a minute.”

Mario’s frowning at his computer screen, but he looks up and grins when Sid raps on his office doorway. “Hey, good to see you. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sid says. “Family in town.”

“They coming to the game tonight?” Mario asks. “I’ll have to come say hi.”

“I’m sure they’d like that.” Sid’s parents love Mario. “I was hoping to talk, if you had a minute.”

Mario’s gaze sharpens immediately, and he waves Sid to the chair next to his desk. Sid sits, flattening his hands under his thighs to keep from fidgeting. “So, I’ve been thinking a lot about the conversation we had a while back.”

Mario leans back in his chair. “Yeah?”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you guys for asking me,” Sid says. “It’s an incredible honor. I mean, I don’t need to tell you that. And it’s definitely work I would love to do with the team someday. But for right now, I think the answer is going to have to be a no.”

Mario’s eyebrows go up. “Okay. You want to tell me more about what you’re thinking?”

“It’s, uh, it’s not anything very concrete,” Sid says. “Like I said, I’d love to do the work. But I don’t think it’s the right time for me yet. I have some things I want to work through on my end before I can be ready to give the team what it needs.”

Mario nods slowly. “Anything on our end we might be able to help you with?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so,” Sid says. “It’s just some personal stuff. I’m not worried about it. But it’s gonna need a little time to settle.”

Mario nods again, and looks at him in silence for a while. “So how long?” he asks.

“Sorry?” Sid says.

“For this thing of yours to settle,” Mario says. “How long are you thinking?”

Sid hesitates. He hadn’t really expected this to be part of the conversation. “I—completely understand if you can’t wait,” he says. “You need to fill the role, and—”

Mario waves his words away. “Don’t be too modest,” he says. “I can’t speak entirely for Ray and Therry. But off the record, you know this team is yours.”

Sid opens his mouth to reply, then has to stop and fight at the smile tugging at his cheeks. “That’s—thanks,” he says ducking his head. “I don’t deserve that, but thanks.”

Mario swivels in his chair. “So if we were to ask you this summer…”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He’s stopped trying to fight the smile. “Six months. Let’s talk again then.”

He gets up, feeling about twice as light as he did when he came in here. Mario’s words glow in his chest, an echo of what Geno told him at Point State Park. The team, this thing he wants, is already is in some way that other people can see. Maybe he can’t lead them yet they way they need him to, but he’ll get there.

He’s halfway out the door when Mario says, “Hey.”

Sid stops. Something in Mario’s voice makes his spine prickle. “Yeah?” he says, turning back.

Mario’s looking at him seriously, a pen balanced between two fingers. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

Sid goes still, mind racing. What does Mario know? Has he noticed Geno coming and going from Sid’s place? No, he couldn’t have. It’s only been a week. Sid and Geno are friends; there’s nothing that weird in Geno being at his place. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he says, aiming for casual.

“Are you sure?” Mario asks. “Because it would be okay, if there was something.”

Mario’s scent isn’t confrontational. Maybe he’s just following up on Sid saying he had something personal going on. But he’s giving Sid that look, that really level one he wore back in the spring when he first talked to Sid about joining the team. That look like he knows.

Like he knows—and is saying it would be okay. Sid feels a tiny burst of hope. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice coming out a little less steady than he intends.

“I mean.” Mario tips his head. “I’m not going to say there wouldn’t be challenges. But I think you already know that. And I trust you to handle things responsibly. Both of you.” He pauses. “That is, if there were anything to tell.”

“Right.” Sid’s voice cracks. “That’s, uh.” His throat is tightening, making it hard to talk. “That’s good to know.”

Mario smiles at him. “Just something to keep in mind. Let me know if something comes up, okay?”

It takes Sid three tries to get his voice to work. “Thanks,” he manages finally. “Yeah, thanks, I will.”

He walks out of the house, feeling dazed. Like he just got hit with a check out of nowhere and almost ended up on his ass. But he’s still standing. He goes outside, and the sun hits his face, and—he’s okay.

He’ll talk to Geno. Together, they’ll talk to Mario for real at some point. Maybe Flower and Véro, too. Some of their other teammates. Geno’s family. It won’t be easy, and it might not go perfectly, but it was never going to be easy or perfect. They’ll be okay. They have a good team at their backs. And most of all, no matter what happens, they have each other.

Sid smiles at the wide blue sky and turns up the drive, towards Geno and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [staal brothers get the last word](https://linskywords.tumblr.com/post/636069995805294592/your-updates-are-as-always-amazing-but-i-do)


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